THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 

From  the  collection  of 
Julius  Doerner,  Chicago 
Purchased,  1918. 

8-21 

B93? 

1852, 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 


https://archive.org/details/poeticalworksofr00burn_3 


f 

iST/S/s,*-.  ' 1 


THE  LIBRARY 

<?r  THE 

UNIVERSITY  QF  ILLINOIS 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 

ROBERT  BURNS: 

INCLUDING 

SEVERAL  PIECES  NOT  INSERTED  IN  DR.  CURRIE?S 
EDITION  : EXHIBITED  UNDER  A NEW 
PLAN  OF  ARRANGEMENT, 

AND  PRECEDED  BY 

A LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR: 

WITH 

NOTES,  AND  A COMPLETE  GLOSSARY. 


• 

ILLUSTRATED. 



BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON  AND  COMPANY, 

110  Washington  Street. 

1852. 


<3  2- 1 

875  ^ 

/^52- 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  present  edition  was  undertaken  by  a gentleman  with 
the  view  of  presenting  the  public  with  the  Poetical  Works 
of  Bums  more  methodically  arranged,  more  copiously  il- 
lustrated, and  less  expensive  in  the  purchase,  than  they 
have  yet  appeared. 

In  comparing  it  with  others,  it  will  be  found  to  possess 
several  advantages. 

I.  It  contains,  besides  a number  of  other  pieces  not  in 
serted  in  Dr.  Currie’s  edition,  “The  Jolly  Beggars,”  a 
cantata  replete  with  humorous  description  and  discrimi- 
nation of  character,  and  inferior  to  no  poem  of  the  same 
length  in  the  English  language.  It  likewise  compre- 
hends “Holy  Willie’s  Prayer,”  a piece  of  satire  une- 
qualled for  exquisite  severity  and  felicitous  delineation. 

II.  In  the  editions  hitherto  published,  no  regard  is  paid 
to  method  or  classification.  In  this,  the  poems  are  dis- 
posed according  to  their  respective  subjects,  and  divided 
into  five  books. 

HI.  Most  of  the  poetry  of  Bums,  though  possessing  an 
energy,  a richness,  and  an  ardor,  which  never  fail  to  strike 
and  captivate  the  mind,  yet  appears  under  great  disadvan- 


70 1251 


4 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


tages  to  the  English  reader.  Much  of  the  fire,  which 
warms  and  dazzles  a native  of  Scotland,  is  to  him  necessa- 
rily lost  by  the  obscurity  of  the  language.  To  obviate  this 
as  much  as  possible,  a considerable  number  of  words  have 
been  added  to  the  Glossary,  and  several  of  the  old  defini- 
tions have  been  corrected  or  enlarged.  A new  Life,  drawn 
up  with  care  and  fidelity,  has  likewise  been  prefixed. 

Of  an  edition,  thus  enlarged  and  improved,  it  is  unne- 
cessary to  say  more.  Should  its  utility  be  acknowledged, 
the  editor  will  consider  his  exertions  sufficiently  rewarded. 

London,  February  25,  1819.  J.  T. 


j — 

CONTENTS. 

— 

Page 

Advertisement, 

3 

Life  of  Robert  Burns, 

17 

Preface  to  the  First  Edition, 

45 

Dedication  to  the  Second  Edition, . . 

47 

BOOK  I. 

MORAL,  RELIGIOUS,  AND  PRECEPTIVE. 

The  Twa  Dogs, 

51 

The  Brigs  of  Ayr, 

59 

The  Vision, 

67 

The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night, 

77 

Verses  written  in  Friar’s- Carse  Hermitage,  on  Nith- 

Side, 

85 

A Prayer,  under  the  Pressure  of  violent  Anguish, . - . 

87 

A Prayer,  in  the  Prospect  of  Death, 

88 

Stanzas,  on  the  same  Occasion, 

89 

Verses  left  by  the  Author  at  a Reverend  Friend’s 

House,  in  the  Room  where  he  slept, 

90 

A Grace  before  Dinner, 

91 

The  First  Psalm, 

92 

The  First  Six  Verses  of  the  Ninetieth  Psalm, 

93 

Epistle  to  a Young  Friend, 

94 

1* 

i 

CONTENTS. 


BOOK  II. 

PATHETIC.  ELEGIAC,  AND  DESCRIPTIVE. 

Page 

Man  was  made  to  Mourn, 98 

A Winter  Night, 101 

Winter, 105 

Despondency, 106 

To  Ruin, 108 

Lament  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  on  the  Approach  of 

Spring,. 109 

The  Lament,  occasioned  by  the  unfortunate  Issue  of  a 

Friend’s  Amour, 112 

Lament  of  a Mother  for  the  D,eath  of  her  Son, 115 

Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glencairn, 116 

Lines  sent  to  Sir  John  Whiteford,  of  Whiteford,  Bart., 

with  the  foregoing  Poem, 119 

Strathallan’s  Lament, 119 

The  Chevalier’s  Lament, 120 

The  Author’s  Farewell  to  his  Native  Country, 121 

Farewell  to  Ayrshire, 122 

The  Farewell  to  the  Brethren  of  St.  James’s  Lodge, 

Tarbolton, 123 

Farewell  to  Eliza, 125 

Highland  Mary, 126 

To  Mary  in  Heaven, 127 

Elegy,  on  the  late  Miss  Burnet,  of  Monboddo, 128 

Verses,  on  reading,  in  a Newspaper,  the  Death  of 
John  M’Leod,  Esq.,  Brother  to  a Young  Lady, 

a particular  Friend  of  the  Author, 129 

Sonnet,  on  the  Death  of  Robert  Riddel,  Esq.,  of  Glen 

Riddel,  April,  1794, 131 

Verses,  on  the  Death  of  Sir  James  Hunter  Blair, 131 

Address  to  the  Shade  of  Thomson,  on  crowning  his 

Bust,  at  Ednam,  Boxburghshirc,  with  Bays,. . . 133 
Epitaph  for  the  Author’s  Father, 134 


I 


CONTENTS.  7 

Page 

For  R.  A.,  Esq., 135 

On  a Friend, , 135 

A Bard’s  Epitaph, 135 


Verses,  on  the  Birth  of  a Posthumous  Child,  born  in 

peculiar  Circumstances  of  family  Distress,  ....  137 
Lines,  on  scaring  some  Water-Fowl,  in  Loch-Turit,  a 

wild  Scene  among  the  Hills  of  Oughtertyre, . . . 138 
Sonnet  written  on  the  25th  of  January,  1793,  the 


Birth- day  of  the  Author,  on  hearing  a Thrush, 

in  a Morning  Walk, 139 

On  Sensibility, 140 

To  a Mouse,  on  turning  her  up  in  her  Nest,  with  the 

Plough,  November,  1785, 141 

To  a Mountain  Daisy,  on  turning  one  down  with  the 

Plough,  in  April,  1786, 143 

The  humble  Petition  of  Bruar- Water,  to  the  noble 

Duke  of  Athole, 145 

Verses,  on  seeing  a wounded  Hare  limp  by  me,  wiiich 

a Fellow  had  just  shot  at, 148 

Lines  written  with  a Pencil,  over  the  Chimney-piece, 

in  the  Parlor  of  the  Inn  at  Kenmore,  Taymouth,  149 
Lines  written  with  a Pencil,  standing  by  the  Fall  of 

Fyers,  near  Loch-Ness, 150 


BOOK  III. 

FAMILIAR  AND  EPISTOLARY. 

To  Miss  Cruikshanks,  a very  Young  Lady — written 
on  the  blank  Leaf  of  a Book  presented  to  her 

by  the  Author, 151 

Verses,  on  a Young  Lady  residing  on  the  Banks  of  the 
small  Iiiver  Devon,  in  Clackmannanshire,  but 
whose  infant  Years  were  spent  in  Ayrshire, . . . 152 


8 


CONTENTS. 


Paga 

To  Miss  L , with  Beattie’s  Poems,  as  a New-Year’s 

Gift,  January  1,  1787, 153 

Yerses  to  a Young  Lady,  with  a Present  of  Songs, ....  153 
Verses  written  on  the  blank  Leaf  of  a Copy  of  his 
Poems,  presented  to  a Lady,  whom  he  had 
often  celebrated  under  the  Name  of  Chloris, . . . 154 

To  a Young  Lady,  Miss  Jessy  L , Dumfries,  with 

Books  which  the  Bard  presented  her, 155 

Y'erses  written  on  the  blank  Leaf  of  a Copy  of  his 
Poems,  presented  to  an  old  Sweetheart,  then 

married, 156 

ToJ.  S****, 156 

Epistle  to  Davie,  a brother  Poet, 162 

To  the  Same, 168 

Epistle  to  J.  Lapraik, 170 

To  the  Same, 174 

To  W.  S*****n, 178 

Epistle  to  J.  R.**  ***-*,  enclosing  some  Poems, 185 

To  Dr.  Blacklock, 188 

To  Colonel  De  Peyster, 190 

Letter  to  J s T 1 G1 — nc — r, 192 

To  Mr.  Mitchell, 194 

To  the  Guidwife  of  Wauchopc-House,  in  Answer  to 

an  Epistle  she  had  sent  the  Author, 196 

To  J.  Ranken,  on  his  writing  to  the  Author  that  a 

Girl  was  with  Child  by  him, 198 

Address  to  an  Illegitimate  Child, 199 

To  a Tailor,  in  Answer  to  an  Epistle  which  he  had 

sent  the  Author, 200 

To  Mr.  William  Tytler,  with  a Portrait  of  the 

Author, 203 

Epistle  to  R.  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Eintra, 204 

To  the  Same, 207 

To  the  Same,  on  receiving  a Pavor, 210 

To  a Gentleman  whom  the  Author  had  offended, ....  211 


CONTENTS. 

9 

Pago 

To  a Gentleman  who  had  sent  him  a Newspaper,  and 

offered  to  continue  it  free  of  Expense, 

212 

Sketch,  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  on  a New-Year’s  Day, 

213 

The  Auld  Farmer’s  New- Year  Morning  Salutation  to 

his  Auld  Mare,  Maggie, 

215 

The  Death  and  dying  Words  of  Poor  Mailie,  the  Au- 

thor’s  only  pet  Yowe, 

219 

Poor  Mailie’s  Elegy, 

221 

BOOK  IV. 

HUMOROUS,  SATIRICAL,  EPIGRAMMATICAL,  AND 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Tam  O’Shanter,.. 

224 

Halloween, 

232 

The  Jolly  Beggars, 

243 

Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook, 

257 

A Dream, 

264 

Scotch  Drink, 

269 

The  Author’s  earnest  Cry  and  Prayer  to  the  Scotch 

Representatives  in  the  House  of  Commons,.. . . 

274 

Address  to  the  Deil, 

281 

On  the  late  Captain  Grose’s  Peregrinations  through 

Scotland,  collecting  the  Antiquities  of  that 

Kingdom, 

285 

Lines  written  in  a Wrapper,  enclosing  a Letter  to 

Captain  Grose, 

288 

Epigram,  on  Captain  Grose, 

289 

Lines,  on  an  Interview  with  Lord  Daer, 

290 

The  Inventory, 

291 

To  a Louse,  on  seeing  one  on  a Lady’s  Bonnet,  at 

Church,- 

294 

Address  to  the  Tooth- Ache, 

296 

10 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

To  a Haggis, 297 

The  Holy  Fair, 299 

The  Ordination, 309 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid,  or  Rigidly  Right- 

eons, 314 

The  Twa  Herds, 317 

The  Calf, 321 

Holy  Willie’s  Prayer, 322 

Epitaph,  on  Holy  Willie, 325 

The  Kirk’s  Alarm, 326 

Letter  to  John  Goudie,  Kilmarnock,  on  the  Publica- 
tion of  his  Essays, 330 

A Dedication  to  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq., 331 

Lines  addressed  to  Mr.  John  Ranken, 336 

Lines  written  by  Burns,  while  on  his  Death-bed,  to 

the  Same, 337 

Extempore,  at  a Meeting  of  the  Dumfriesshire  Vol- 
unteers,   337 

Extempore,  on  the  late  Mr.  William  Smellie, 338 

To  Mr.  S**e,  on  refusing  to  dine  with  him,  after  hav- 
ing been  promised  the  first  of  Company,  and 

the  first  Cookery, 338 

To  Mr.  S**e,  with  a Present  of  a dozen  of  Porter,. . . 339 
Extempore,  written  in  Answer  to  a Card  from  an  In- 
timate of  Burns,  inviting  him  to  spend  an 

Hour  at  a Tavern, 339 

Extempore,  written  in  a Lady’s  Pocket-Book, 340 

Lines,  on  Miss  J.  Scott,  of  Ayr, 340 

Lines  written  under  the  Picture  of  the  celebrated 

Miss  Burns, 340 

Lines,  on  being  asked  why  God  had  made  Miss  Davis 

so  little,  and  Miss so  large, 341 

Lines  written  and  presented  to  Mrs.  Kemble,  on  see- 
ing her  in  the  Character  of  Yarico, 341 

Lines  written  on  Windows  of  the  Globe  Tavern, 

Dumfries, 342 


CONTENTS.  II 

Pago 

Lines  written  on  a Window,  at  the  King’s- Arms  Tav- 
ern, Dumfries, 343 

A Verse  presented  by  the  Author  to  the  Master  of  a 
House,  at  a Place  in  the  Highlands,  wrhere  he 

had  been  hospitably  entertained, 343 

Epigram,  on  the  Neglect  of  an  Inn-keeper, 314 

Epigram,  on  Elphinstone’s  Translation  of  Martial’s 

Epigrams...... 344 

Verses  written  on  a Window  of  the  Inn  at  Carron, . . . 345 

Epitaph,  on  a celebrated  Puling  Elder, 345 

On  a Noisy  Polemic, 346 

On  Wee  Johnny, 346 

For  G.  H.,  Esq., 346 

On  a Wag  in  Mauchline, 347 

On  John  Dove,  Inn-keeper,  Mauchline, 347 

On  Walter  S 348 

On  a Hen-pecked  Country  Squire, 348 

Epigram  on  said  Occasion, 348 

Another, 349 

On  the  Death  of  a Lap-dog  named  Echo, 349 

Impromptu,  on  Mrs. ’s  Birth-day, 350 

Monody,  on  a Lady  famed  for  her  Caprice, 351 

The  Epitaph, 352 

Ode,  sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Mrs. , of . . . . 352 

The  Hen-pecked  Husband, 354 

Elegy,  on  the  Year  1788, 354 

Tam  Samson’s  Elegy, 358 

The  Epitaph, 359 

Per  Contra, 360 

Elegy,  on  Captain  Matthew  Henderson, 360 

The  Epitaph, 364 

On  a Scotch  Bard,  gone  to  the  West  Indies, 365 

On  Pastoral  Poetry, 367 

Prologue,  spoken  at  the  Theatre,  Ellisland,  on  New- 

Year-Day  Evening, 369 


Prologue,  spoken  by  Mr.  Woods,  on  his  Benefit-night,  371 

I ' ' 


12  CONTENTS. 

Tage 

Tho  Rights  of  Woman,  an  Occasional  Address,  spo- 


ken by  Miss  Fontenelle,  on  her  Benefit-night,  373 
Address,  spoken  by  Miss  Fontenelle,  on  her  Benefit- 

night,  at  the  Theatre,  Dumfries, 374 

Fragment,  inscribed  to  the  Right  Hon.  C.  J.  Fox, ....  376 
Inscription  for  an  Altar  to  Independence,  at  Kerrough- 

try,  the  Seat  of  Mr.  Heron, 378 

Address  to  Edinburgh, 378 


BOOK  V. 

SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 


A Vision, 382 

Bannock  Burn — Robert  Bruce’s  Address  to  his  Army,  384 

Song  of  Death, 385 

Imitation  of  an  old  Jacobite  Song, 386 

The  Lass  of  Inverness, 386 

The  Absent  Warrior, 387 

The  Warrior’s  Return, 389 

Lord  Gregory, 391 

Open  the  door  to  me,  Oh  ! — with  Alterations, 392 

The  Entreaty, 393 

The  Answer, 394 

The  Forlorn  Lover, 395 

The  Dreary  Night, 396 

Poortith  Cauld, 398 

Clarinda, 398 

Isabella, 399 

Wandering  Willie, • • • • . 399 

The  Parting  Kiss, 400 

The  Roaring  Ocean, 401 

Fair  Eliza, 402 

Eliza, 403 


r 


COINTENTS.  13 

Page 

The  Braes  o’  Ballochmyle, 404 

Gloomy  December, 404 

Departure  of  Nancy 405 

My  Name’s  Awa, 406 

Banks  o’  Doon, 407 

The  Disconsolate  Lover, 407 

Cragie-Burn, 409 

The  Cheerless  Soul, 410 

Mary  Morison, . 411 

Fair  Jenny, , 412 

Address  to  the  Wood-Lark, 413 

Fragment,  in  Witherspoon’s  Collection  of  Scots’ 

Songs, 414 

Address  to  a Lady, , 415 

The  Auld  Man, . . 415 

John  Anderson,  my  Jo, * 416 

Auld  Lang  Syne, 417 

Hopeless  Love,.... 418 

Banks  of  Nith, 419 

Banks  of  Cree, 420 

Castle  Gordon, 420 

Afton  Water, 422 

The  Sacred  Vow, 423 

The  Bigs  o’  Barley, 424 

The  Lea-Big 425 

The  Lass  of  Ballochmyle, 426 

Bonie  Lesley, 428 

Bonie  Jean, 429 

Dainty  Davie, 431 

To  Jcanie, 432 

Clouden  Knowes, 433 

Lovely  Nancy, 434 

To  Chloris, 435 

Lassie  wi’  the  Lintwhite  Locks, 436 

Chloris, 437 

The  Bose-Bud, 437 


2 


CONTENTS. 


14 

Pago 

The  Birks  of  Aberfeldy, 438 

This  is  no  my  ain  Lassie, 440 

Constancy, 441 

Peggy’s  Charms, 442 

Jessy, 443 

The  Blue- eyed  Lassie, 444 

Wilt  thou  be  my  Dearie  ? 444 

The  Blissful  Day, 445 

Lovely  Jean, 446 

Lucy, 447 

Blithe  Phemie, 448 

Charming  Nannie, 449 

Green  grow  the  Rashes, 451 

The  Highland  Lassie, 452 

Anna, 454 

The  Spinning-Wheel, 455 

The  Country  Lassie, 456  * 

Tam  Glen, 457 

Somebody, 459 

O Whistle,  &c., 459 

Ane-and-Twenty, 460 

The  Young  Lassie, 461 

The  Mercenary  Lover, 462 

Meg  o’  the  Mill, 463 

My  Tocher’s  the  Jewel, 464 

Auld  Rob  Morris, 464 

To  Tibbie, 465 

Duncan  Gray, 467 

The  Braw  Wooer, 468 

Willie’s  Wife, 470 

A Peck  o’  Maut, 471 

The  Lawin, 472 

Honest  Poverty, 473 

The  Battle  of  Sheriff-Muir, 475 

Contentment, 477 

The  Dumfries  Volunteers, 478 


CONTENTS.  15 

Page 

Caledonia, 479 

Comm  through  the  Rye, 480 

The  Whistle, 481 

John  Barleycorn, 485 

Glossary, ,,  491 


THE 

LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


There  is  no  poet  of  the  present  age  more  deservedly 
popular  than  Bums.  Though  born  in  an  humble  station 
in  life,  he  raised  himself,  by  the  mere  exertions  of  his 
mind,  to  the  highest  pitch  of  intellectual  greatness.  The 
originality  of  his  genius,  the  energy  of  his  language,  and 
the  richness  of  his  imagination,  merited  the  gratitude  as 
well  as  the  admiration  of  his  countrymen.  But  his  high- 
est efforts,  in  which  the  tide  of  human  feeling  seemed  to 
flow  in  deep  and  exhaustless  channels,  failed  to  soften  the 
avarice  of  a mean  and  selfish  aristocracy.  Like  his  native 
and  lonely  hills,  he  was  subject  to  every  blast,  and  exposed 
naked  and  bare  to  every  tempest.  He  was  an  elevated 
point,  round  which  the  storm  clung  and  gathered ; a prom- 
inent rock,  condemned  by  nature,  as  it  were,  to  endure  the 
buffettings  of  the  surge.  Yet  his  rude  splendor  remained 
uninjured.  Amidst  the  bitter  waters  of  indigence  and 
sorrow,  of  drudgery  and  neglect,  he  produced  those  beau- 
tiful idylliums  which  will  ever  exist  for  the  delight  of  the 
world ; and  which  will  never  be  read  without  an  expan- 
sion of  the  understanding  and  of  the  heart. 

Robert  Burns  was  born  on  the  25th  of  January,  1759,  in 
a cottage  near  the  banks  of  the  Doon,  about  two  miles 
from  Ayr.  The  chief  incidents  of  his  life  are  related,  by 
himself,  in  a letter  to  Dr.  Moore.  In  this  document,  and 
in  several  passages  of  his  correspondence,  he  unfolds  the 
2* 


18  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

vicissitudes  of  his  fortune,  and  the  peculiarities  of  his 
character,  with  great  strength  and  clearness.  Whoever 
would  do  justice  to  his  memory,  must  copy  his  sentiments 
and  his  language. 

“ For  some  months  past/’  says  he,  “ I have  been  ram- 
bling over  the  country  ; but  I am  now  confined  with  some 
lingering  complaints,  originating,  as  I take  it,  in  the  sto- 
mach. To  divert  my  spirits  a little  in  this  miserable  fog 
of  ennui,  I have  taken  a whim  to  give  you  a history  of 
myself.  My  name  has  made  some  little  noise  in  this 
country  ; you  have  done  me  the  honor  to  interest  yourself 
very  warmly  in  my  behalf ; and  I think  a faithful  account 
of  what  character  of  a man  I am,  and  how  I came  by  that 
character,  may  perhaps  amuse  you  in  an  idle  moment.  I 
will  give  you  an  honest  narrative  ; though  I know  it  will 
be  often  at  my  own  expense  ; for  I assure  you,  sir,  I have, 
like  Solomon,  whose  character,  except  in  the  trifling  affair 
of  wisdom,  I sometimes  think  I resemble ; I have,  I say, 
like  him,  * turned  my  eyes  to  behold  madness  and  folly,’  and, 
like  him,  too,  frequently  * shaken  hands  with  their  intoxi- 
cating friendship.’  * * * * After  you  have  perused  these 
pages,  should  you  think  them  trifling  and  impertinent,  I 
only  beg  leave  to  tell  you,  that  the  poor  author  wrote 
them  under  some  twitching  qualms  of  conscience,  arising 
from  suspicion  that  he  was  doing  what  he  ought  not  to  do : 
a predicament  he  has  more  than  once  been  in  before. 

“ I have  not  the  most  distant  pretensions  to  assume  that 
character  which  the  pyc- coated  guardians  of  escutcheons 
call  a gentleman.  When  at  Edinburgh,  last  winter,  I got 
acquainted  in  the  Herald’s  Office,  and,  looking  through 
that  granary  of  honors,  I there  found  almost  every  name 
in  the  kingdom  ; but  for  me, 

‘My  ancient  but  ignoble  blood 
Has  crept  through  scoundrels  ever  since  the  flood.’ 

Gules,  Purpure,  Argent,  &c.,  quite  disowned  me. 

“ My  father  was  of  the  north  of  Scotland,  the  son  of  a 
farmer,  who  rented  lands  of  the  noble  Keiths  of  Marischal, 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


19 


and  had  the  honor  of  sharing  their  fate.  I do  not  use  the 
word  honor  with  any  reference  to  political  principles:  loyal 
and  disloyal  I take  to  be  merely  relative  terms,  in  that  an- 
cient and  formidable  court,  known  in  this  country  by  the 
name  of  Club  law,  where  the  right  is  always  with  the 
strongest.  But  those  wTho  dare  welcome  ruin,  and  shake 
hands  with  infamy,  for  what  they  sincerely  believe  to  be 
the  cause  of  their  God,  or  their  king,  are,  as  Mark  Antony 
says,  in  Shakspeare,  of  Brutus  and  Cassius,  ‘honorable 
men/  I mention  this  circumstance,  because  it  threw  my 
father  on  the  world  at  large. 

“ After  many  years’  -wanderings  and  sojournings,  he 
picked  up  a pretty  large  quantity  of  observation  and 
experience,  to  which  I am  indebted  for  most  of  my  little 
pretensions  to  wisdom.  I have  met  with  few  who  under- 
stood men,  their  manners,  and  their  ways,  equal  to  him ; 
but  stubborn,  ungainly  integrity,  and  headlong,  ungovern- 
able irascibility,  are  disqualifying  circumstances;  conse- 
quently, I was  born  a very  poor  man’s  son.  Bor  the  first 
six  or  seven  years  of  my  life,  my  father  was  gardener  to  a 
worthy  gentleman  of  small  estate,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Ayr.  Had  he  continued  in  that  station,  I must  have 
marched  off  to  be  one  of  the  little  underlings  about  a 
farm-house ; but  it  was  his  dearest  wish  and  prayer  to 
have  it  in  his  power  to  keep  his  children  under  his  own 
eye,  till  they  could  discern  between  good  and  evil ; so, 
with  the  assistance  of  his  generous  master,  my  father  ven- 
tured on  a small  farm  on  his  estate.  At  those  years,  I was 
by  no  means  a favorite  with  any  body.  I wras  a good  deal 
noted  for  a retentive  memory,  a stubborn,  sturdy  something 
in  my  disposition,  and  an  enthusiastic,  idiot  piety.  I say 
idiot  piety,  because  I wras  then  but  a child.  Though  it  cost 
the  schoolmaster  some  thrashings,  I made  an  excellent 
English  scholar ; and,  by  the  time  I was  ten  or  eleven 
years  of  age,  I was  a critic  in  substantives,  verbs,  and  par- 
ticles. In  my  infant  and  boyish  days,  too,  I owed  much  to 
an  old  woman  who  resided  in  the  family,  remarkable  for 


20  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

her  ignorance,  credulity,  and  superstition.  She  had,  I sup- 
pose, the  largest  collection  in  the  country,  of  tales  and 
songs  concerning  devils,  ghosts,  fairies,  brownies,  witches, 
warlocks,  spunkies,  kelpies,  elf-candles,  dead-lights,  wraiths, 
apparitions,  cantrips,  giants,  enchanted  towers,  dragons,  and 
other  trumpery.  This  cultivated  the  latent  seeds  of  poetry ; 
but  had  so  strong  an  effect  on  my  imagination,  that,  to  this 
hour,  in  my  nocturnal  rambles,  I sometimes  keep  a sharp 
look-out  in  suspicious  places  ; and  though  nobody  can  be 
more  skeptical  than  I am  in  such  matters,  yet  it  often  takes 
an  effort  of  philosophy  to  shake  off  these  idle  terrors.  The 
earliest  composition  that  I recollect  taking  pleasure  in,  was 
the  Vision  of  Mirza,  and  a hymn  of  Addison’s,  beginning, 
* How  are  thy  servants  blest,  O Lord  ! ’ I particularly 
remember  one  half  stanza,  which  was  music  to  my  boyish 
ear : — 

/ cFor  though  on  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 
High  on  the  broken  wave.’ 

I met  with  these  pieces  in  Mason’s  English  Collection,  one 
of  my  school  books.  The  two  first  books  I ever  read  in 
private,  and  which  gave  me  more  pleasure  than  any  two 
books  I ever  read  since,  were  the  Life  of  Hannibal,  and  the 
History  of  Sir  William  Wallace.  Hannibal  gave  my  young 
ideas  such  a turn,  that  I used  to  strut  in  raptures  up  and 
down  after  the  recruiting  drum  and  bagpipe,  and  wish  my- 
self tall  enough  to  be  a soldier  ; vriiile  the  story  of  Wallace 
poured  a Scottish  prejudice  into  my  veins,  which  will  boil 
along  there  till  the  flood-gates  of  life  shut  in  eternal  rest. 

“ Polemical  divinity  about  this  time  was  putting  the 
country  half  mad ; and  I,  ambitious  of  shining  in  conver- 
sation parties  on  Sundays,  between  sermons,  at  funerals,  &c., 
used,  a few  years  afterwards,  to  puzzle  Calvinism  with  so 
much  heat  and  indiscretion,  that  I raised  a hue  and  cry  of 
heresy  against  me,  which  has  not  ceased  to  this  hour. 

“ My  vicinity  to  Ayr  was  of  some  advantage  to  me.  My 
social  disposition,  when  not  checked  by  some  modifications 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  21 

of  spirited  pride,  was,  like  our  catechism  definition  of 
infinitude,  * without  bounds  or  limits.’  I formed  several 
connexions  with  other  younkers  who  possessed  superior 
advantages,  the  youngling  actors,  who  were  busy  in  the 
rehearsal  of  parts  in  which  they  were  shortly  to  appear  on 
the  stage  of  life,  where,  alas  ! I was  destined  to  drudge 
behind  the  scenes.  It  is  not  commonly  at  this  green  age 
that  our  gentry  have  a just  sense  of  the  immense  distance 
between  them  and  their  ragged  playfellows.  It  takes  a few 
dashes  into  the  world  to  give  the  young  great  man  that 
proper,  decent,  unnoticing  disregard  for  the  poor,  insignifi- 
cant, stupid  devils,  the  mechanics  and  peasantry  around 
him,  who  were,  perhaps,  born  in  the  same  village.  My 
young  superiors  never  insulted  the  clouterly  appearance 
of  my  ploughboy  carcass,  the  two  extremes  of  which  were 
often  exposed  to  all  the  inclemencies  of  all  the  seasons. 
They  would  give  me  stray  volumes  of  books ; among  them, 
even  then,  I could  pick  up  some  observations ; and  one, 
whose  heart  I am  sure  not  even  the  Munny  Begum  scenes 
have  tainted,  helped  me  to  a little  French.  Parting  with 
these,  my  young  friends  and  benefactors,  as  they  occasion- 
ally went  off  for  the  East  or  West  Indies,  was  often  to  me 
a sore  affliction ; but  I was  soon  called  to  more  serious 
evils.  My  father’s  generous  master  died  ; the  farm  proved 
a ruinous  bargain ; and,  to  clench  the  misfortune,  we  fell 
into  the  hands  of  a factor,  who  sat  for  the  picture  I have 
drawn  of  one  in  my  tale  of  Twa  Dogs.  My  father  was 
advanced  in  life  when  he  married ; I was  the  eldest  of 
seven  children  ; and  he,  worn  out  by  early  hardships,  was 
unfit  for  labor.  My  father’s  spirit  was  soon  irritated,  but 
not  easily  broken.  There  was  a freedom  in  his  lease  in 
two  years  more ; and,  to  weather  these  two  years,  we  re- 
trenched our  expenses.  We  lived  very  po.orly ; I was  a 
dexterous  ploughman,  for  my  age;  and  the  next  eldest  to 
me  was  a brother  (Gilbert)  who  could  drive  the  plough 
very  well,  and  help  me  to  thrash  the  corn.  A novel  writer 
might,  perhaps,  have  viewed  these  scenes  with  some  satis* 

I ..  


22 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


faction  ; but  so  did  not  I ; my  indignation  yet  boils  at  the 
recollection  of  the  s 1 factor’s  insolent,  threatening  let- 

ters, which  used  to  set  us  all  in  tears. 

“ This  kind  of  life  — the  cheerless  gloom  of  a hermit 
with  the  unceasing  moil  of  a galley  slave,  brought  me  to 
my  sixteenth  year,  a little  before  which  period  I first  com- 
mitted the  sin  of  rhyme.  You  know  our  country  custom 
of  coupling  a man  and  woman  together  as  partners  in  the 
labors  of  harvest.  In  my  fifteenth  autumn  my  partner  was 
a bewitching  creature,  a year  younger  than  myself.  My 
scarcity  of  English  denies  me  the  power  of  doing  her  jus- 
tice in  that  language ; but  you  know  the  Scottish  idiom  — 
she  was  a bonie,  sweet,  sonsie  lass.  In  short,  she,  alto- 
gether unwittingly  to  herself,  initiated  me  in  that  delicious 
passion,  which,  in  spite  of  acid  disappointment,  gin-horse 
prudence,  and  book- worm  philosophy,  I hold  to  be  the  first 
of  human  joys,  our  dearest  blessing  here  below ! How  she 
caught  the  contagion  I cannot  tell:  you  medical  people 
talk  much  of  infection  from  breathing  the  same  air,  the 
touch,  &c. ; but  I never  expressly  said  I loved  her.  Indeed, 
I did  not  know  myself  why  I liked  so  much  to  loiter 
behind  with  her,  when  returning  in  the  evening  from  our 
labors  ; why  the  tones  of  her  voice  made  my  heart-strings 
thrill  like  an  ^Eolian  harp  ; and  particularly  why  my  pulse 
beat  such  a furious  ratan  when  I looked  and  fingered  over 
her  little  hand  to  pick  out  the  cruel  nettle-stings  and  this- 
tles. Among  her  other  love-inspiring  qualities,  she  sung 
sweetly ; and  it  was  her  favorite  reel  to  which  I attempted 
giving  an  embodied  vehicle  in  rhyme.  I was  not  so  pre- 
sumptuous as  to  imagine  that  I could  make  verses  like 
printed  ones,  composed  by  men  who  had  Greek  and  Latin ; 
but  my  girl  sung  a song  which  was  said  to  be  composed 
by  a small  country  laird’s  son,  on  one  of  his  father’s  maids 
with  whom  he  was  in  love ; and  I saw  no  reason  why  I 
might  not  rhyme  as  well  as  he ; for,  excepting  that  he  could 
smear  sheep  and  cast  peats,  his  father  living  in  the  moor- 
lands, he  had  no  more  scholarcraft  than  myself. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


23 


“ Thus  with  me  began  love  and  poetry,  which  at  times 
have  been  my  only,  and  till  within  the  last  twelve  months 
have  been  my  highest,  enjoyment.  My  father  struggled 
on  till  he  reached  the  freedom  in  his  lease,  when  he  entered 
on  a larger  farm  about  ten  miles  further  in  the  country. 
The  nature  of  the  bargain  he  made  was  such  as  to  throw 
a little  ready  money  into  his  hands  at  the  commencement 
of  his  lease,  otherwise  the  affair  would  have  been  imprac- 
ticable. For  four  years  we  lived  comfortably  here ; but  a 
difference  commencing  between  him  and  his  landlord  as  to 
terms,  after  three  years'  tossing  and  whirling  in  the  vortex 
of  litigation,  my  father  was  just  saved  from  the  horrors  of 
a jail  by  a consumption,  which,  after  two  years’  promises, 
kindly  stepped  in,  and  carried  him  away  to  4 where  the 
wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  iveary  are  at  rest.’ 

“It  is  during  the  time  that  we  lived  on  this  farm,  that 
my  little  story  is  most  eventful.  I was,  at  the  beginning 
of  this  period,  perhaps,  the  most  ungainly,  awkward  boy 
in  the  parish  — no  solitaire  was  less  acquainted  with  the 
ways  of  the  world.  What  I knew  of  ancient  story  was 
gathered  from  Salmon’s  and  Guthrie’s  geographical  gram- 
mars ; and  the  ideas  I had  formed  of  modern  manners,  of 
literature,  and  criticism,  I got  from  the  Spectator.  These, 
with  Pope’s  works,  some  plays  of  Shakspeare,  Tell  and 
Dickson  on  Agriculture,  The  Pantheon,  Locke’s  Essay  on 
the  Human  Understanding,  Stackhouse’s  History  of  the 
Bible,  Justice’s  British  Gardener’s  Directory,  Bayle’s  Lec- 
tures, Allan  Ramsay’s  works,  Taylor’s  Scripture  Doctrine 
of  Original  Sin,  A select  Collection  of  English  Songs,  and 
Hervey’s  Meditations,  had  formed  the  whole  of  my  read- 
ing. The  collection  of  songs  was  my  vade  mecum.  I pored 
over  them,  driving  my  cart,  or  walking  to  labor,  song  by 
song,  verse  by  verse  ; carefully  noting  the  true  tender,  or 
sublime,  from  affectation  and  fustian.  I am  convinced  I 
owe  to  this  practice  much  of  my  critic-craft,  such  as  it  is. 

“ In  my  seventeenth  year,  to  give  my  manners  a brush, 
I went  to  a country  dancing-school.  My  father  had  an 


24 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


Unaccountable  antipathy  against  these  meetings  ; and  my 
going  was,  what  to  this  moment  I repent,  in  opposition  to 
his  wishes.  My  father,  as  I said  before,  was  subject  to 
strong  passions ; from  that  instance  of  disobedience  in  me 
he  took  a sort  of  dislike  to  me,  which  I believe  was  one 
cause  of  the  dissipation  which  marked  my  succeeding 
years.  I say  dissipation,  comparatively  with  the  strict- 
ness, and  sobriety,  and  regularity,  of  Presbyterian  country 
life  ; for  though  the  Will  o’  Wisp  meteors  of  thoughtless 
whim  were  almost  the  sole  lights  of  my  path,  yet  early 
ingrained  piety  and  virtue  kept  me  for  several  years  after- 
wards within  the  line  of  innocence.  The  great  misfortune 
of  my  life  was  to  want  an  aim.  I had  felt  early  some  stir- 
rings of  ambition,  but  they  were  the  blind  gropings  of 
Homer’s  Cyclops  round  the  walls  of  his  cave.  I saw  my 
father’s  situation  entailed  upon  me  perpetual  labor.  The 
only  two  openings  by  which  I could  enter  the  temple  of 
Fortune,  was  the  gate  of  niggardly  economy,  or  the  path 
of  little  chicaning  bargain-making.  The  first  is  so  con- 
tracted an  apperture,  I never  could  squeeze  myself  into  it ; 
the  last  I always  hated  — there  was  contamination  in  the 
very  entrance  ! Thus  abandoned  of  aim  or  view  in  life, 
with  a strong  appetite  for  sociability,  as  well  from  native 
hilarity,  as  from  a pride  of  observation  and  remark  ; a con- 
stitutional melancholy,  or  hypochondriasm,  that  made  me 
fly  to  solitude ; add  to  these  incentives  to  social  life,  my 
reputation  for  bookish  knowledge,  a certain  wild  logical 
talent,  and  a strength  of  thought  something  like  the  rudi- 
ments of  good  sense  ; and  it  will  not  seem  surprising  that 
I was  generally  a welcome  guest  where  I visited,  or  any 
great  wonder  that,  always  where  two  or  three  met  together 
there  was  I among  them. 

“But  far  beyond  all  other  impulses  of  my  heart  was  un 
•penchant  a V adorable  moitie  de  genre  humain . My  heart 
was  completely  tinder,  and  was  eternally  lighted  up  by 
some  goddess  or  other ; and,  as  in  every  other  warfare  in 
this  world,  my  fortune  was  various  ; sometimes  I was  rc« 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


25 


ceived  with  favor,  and  sometimes  I was  mortified  with  a 
repulse.  At  the  plough,  scythe,  or  reap-hook,  I feared  no 
competitor,  and  thus  I set  absolute  want  at  defiance ; and 
as  I never  cared  farther  for  my  labors  than  while  I was 
in  actual  exercise,  I spent  the  evenings  in  the  way  after 
my  own  heart.  A country  lad  seldom  carries  on  a love 
adventure  without  an  assisting  confidant.  I possessed  a 
curiosity,  zeal,  and  intrepid  dexterity,  that  recommended 
me  as  a proper  second  on  these  occasions ; and,  I dare 
say,  I felt  as  much  pleasure  in  being  in  the  secret  of  half 
the  loves  of  the  parish  of  Tarbolton,  as  ever  did  statesmen 
in  knowing  the  intrigues  of  half  the  courts  of  Europe. 
The  very  goose-feather  in  my  hand  seems  to  know  instinc- 
tively the  well-worn  path  of  my  imagination,  the  favorite 
theme  of  my  song ; and  is  with  difficulty  restrained  from 
giving  you  a couple  of  paragraphs  on  the  love  adventures 
of  my  compeers,  the  humble  inmates  of  the  farm-house 
and  cottage ; but  the  grave  sons  of  science,  ambition,  or 
avarice,  baptize  these,  things  by  the  name  of  Pollies.  To 
the  sons  and  daughters  of  labor  and  poverty,  they  are  mat- 
ters of  the  most  serious  nature  ; to  them,  the  ardent  hope, 
the  stolen  interview,  the  tender  farewell,  are  the  greatest 
and  most  delicious  parts  of  their  enjoyments. 

“ Another  circumstance  in  my  life,  which  made  some 
alteration  in  my  mind  and  manners,  was,  that  I spent  my 
nineteenth  summer  on  a smuggling  coast,  a good  distance 
from  home,  at  a noted  school,  to  learn  mensuration,  sur- 
veying, dialling,  &c.,  in  which  I made  a pretty  good  pro- 
gress. But  I made  a greater  progress  in  the  knowledge 
of  mankind.  The  contraband  trade  was  at  that  time  very 
successful,  and  it  sometimes  happened  to  me  to  fall  in 
with  those  who  carried  it  on.  Scenes  of  swaggering  riot 
and  roaring  dissipation  were  till  this  time  new  to  me  ; but 
I was  no  enemy  to  social  life.  Here,  though  I learnt  to 
fill  my  glass,  and  to  mix  without  fear  in  a drunken  squab- 
ble, yet  I went  on  with  a high  hand  with  my  geometry, 
till  the  sun  entered  Virgo,  a month  which  is  always  a 

3 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


2G 

carnival  in  my  bosom,  wlien  a charming  filelle>  who  lived 
next  door  to  the  school,  overset  my  trigonometry,  and  set 
me  off  at  a tangent  from  the  sphere  of  my  studies.  I, 
however,  struggled  on  with  my  sines  and  cosines  for  a few 
days  more ; but,  stepping  into  the  garden  one  charming 
noon  to  take  the  sun’s  altitude,  there  I met  my  angel, 

‘Like  Proserpine  gathering  flowers, 

Herself  a fairer  flower.’ 

It  was  in  vain  to  think  of  doing  any  more  good  at  school. 
The  remaining  week  I staid,  I did  nothing  but  craze  the 
faculties  of  my  soul  about  her,  or  steal  out  to  meet  her ; 
and,  the  two  last  nights  of  my  stay  in  the  country,  had 
sleep  been  a mortal  sin,  the  image  of  this  modest  and  in- 
nocent girl  had  kept  me  guiltless. 

“ I returned  home  very  considerably  improved.  My 
reading  was  enlarged  with  the  very  important  addition 
of  Thomson’s  and  Shenstone’s  works ; I had  seen  human 
nature  in  a new  phasis;  and  I engaged  several  of  my 
school-fellowrs  to  keep  up  a literary  correspondence  with 
me.  This  improved  me  in  composition.  I had  met  with 
a collection  of  letters  by  the  wits  of  Queen  Anne’s  reign, 
and  I pored  over  them  most  devoutly : I kept  copies  of 
any  of  my  own  letters  that  pleased  me  ; and  a comparison 
between  them  and  the  compositions  of  most  of  my  corre- 
spondents flattered  my  vanity.  I carried  this  whim  so  far, 
that  though  I had  not  three  farthings’  worth  of  business 
in  the  wrorld,  yet  almost  every  post  brought  me  as  many 
letters  as  if  I had  been  a broad  plodding  son  of  a day- 
book and  ledger. 

“ My  life  flowed  on  much  in  the  same  course  till  my 
twenty-third  year.  Vive  V amour , et  vive  la  bagatelle , 
were  my  sole  principles  of  action.  The  addition  of  two 
more  authors  to  my  library  gave  me  great  pleasure : Sterno 
and  M’Kenzie  — Tristram  Shandy  and  the  Man  of  Feel- 
ing — were  my  bosom  favorites.  Poesy  wras  still  a darling 
walk  for  my  mind  ; but  it  was  only  indulged  in  according 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


27 


to  the  humor  of  the  hour.  I had  usually  half  a dozen  or 
more  pieces  on  hand ; I took  up  one  or  other,  as  it  suited 
the  momentary  tone  of  the  mind,  and  dismissed  the  work 
as  it  bordered  on  fatigue.  My  passions,  when  once  lighted 
up,  raged  like  so  many  devils,  till  they  got  vent  in  rhyme  ; 
and  then  the  conning  over  my  verses,  like  a spell,  soothed 
all  into  quiet ! None  of  the  rhymes  of  those  days  are  in 
print,  except  Winter,  a dirge,  the  eldest  of  my  printed 
pieces;  the  Death  of  poor  Mailie;  John  Barleycorn;  the 
songs,  first,  second,  and  third.  Song  second  was  the  ebul- 
lition of  that  passion  which  ended  the  fore-mentioned 
school  business. 

“My  twenty- third  year  was  to  me  an  important  era. 
Partly  through  whim,  and  partly  that  I wished  to  set 
about  doing  something  in  life,  I joined  a flax-dresser  in 
a neighboring  town  (Irvine)  to  learn  his  trade.  This  was 
an  unlucky  affair.  My  * * * * ; and,  to  finish  the  whole, 
as  we  were  giving  a welcome  carousal  to  the  new  year, 
the  shop  took  fire,  and  burnt  to  ashes;  and  I was  left, 
like  a true  poet,  not  worth  a sixpence. 

“I  was  obliged  to  give  up  this  scheme;  the  clouds  of 
misfortune  were  gathering  thick  round  my  father’s  head, 
and  what  was  worst  of  all,  he  was  visibly  far  gone  in  a 
consumption ; and,  to  crown  my  distresses,  a belle  Jille, 
whom  I adored,  and  who  had  pledged  her  soul  to  meet 
me  in  matrimony,  jilted  me  with  peculiar  circumstances 
of  mortification.  The  finishing  evil  that  brought  up  the 
rear  of  this  infernal  file,  was  my  constitutional  melancholy, 
being  increased  to  such  a degree,  that  for  three  months  I 
was  in  a state  of  mind  scarcely  to  be  envied  by  the  hope- 
less wretches  who  have  got  their  mittimus  — ‘ Depart  from 
me,  ye  accursed ! ’ 

“Prom  this  adventure  I learned  something  of  a town 
life  ; but  the  principal  thing  which  gave  my  mind  a turn, 
was  a friendship  I had  formed  with  a young  fellow,  a very 
noble  character,  but  a hapless  son  of  misfortune.  He  was 
the  son  of  a simple  mechanic;  but  a great  man  in  the 


28  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

neighborhood  taking  him  under  his  patronage,  gave  him 
a genteel  education,  with  a view  of  bettering  his  situation 
in  life.  The  patron  dying  just  as  he  was  ready  to  launch 
out  into  the  world,  the  poor  fellow,  in  despair,  went  to  sea ; 
where,  after  a variety  of  good  and  ill  fortune,  a little  before 
I was  acquainted  with  him,  he  had  been  set  on  shore  by 
an  American  privateer,  on  the  wild  coast  of  Connaught, 
stripped  of  every  thing.  I cannot  quit  this  poor  fellow’s 
story  without  adding,  that  he  is  at  this  time  master  of  a 
large  West-Indiaman  belonging  to  the  Thames. 

“His  mind  was  fraught  with  independence,  magnanim- 
ity, and  every  manly  virtue.  I loved  and  admired  him  to 
a degree  of  enthusiasm,  and  of  course  strove  to  imitate 
him.  In  some  measure  I succeeded  : I had  pride  before, 
but  he  taught  it  to  flow  in  proper  channels.  His  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  was  vastly  superior  to  mine,  and  I was 
all  attention  to  learn.  He  was  the  only  man  I ever  saw 
who  was  a greater  fool  than  myself,  where  woman  was 
the  presiding  star ; but  he  spoke  of  illicit  love  with  the 
levity  of  a sailor,  which  hitherto  I had  regarded  with  hor- 
ror. Here  his  friendship  did  me  mischief ; and  the  con- 
sequence was,  that  soon  after  I resumed  the  plough,  I 
wrote  The  Poet’s  Welcome.*  My  reading  only  increased, 
while  in  this  town,  by  two  stray  volumes  of  Pamela,  and 
one  of  Ferdinand  Count  Fathom,  which  gave  me  some  idea 
of  novels.  Rhyme,  except  some  religious  pieces  that  are 
in  print,  I had  given  up;  but  meeting  with  Ferguson’s 
Scottish  Poems,  I strung  anew  my  wildly-sounding  lyre 
with  emulating  vigor.  When  my  father  died,  his  all  went 
among  the  hell-hounds  that  prowl  in  the  kennel  of  jus- 
tice ! but  we  made  a shift  to  collect  a little  money  in  the 
family  amongst  us,  with  which,  to  keep  us  together,  my 
brother  and  I took  a neighboring  farm.  My  brother  want- 
ed my  hair-brained  imagination,  as  well  as  my  social  and 


* This  piece,  we  believe,  was  afterwards  entitled,  Address  to  an  ille« 
gitimate  Child. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


29 


amorous  madness ; but  in  good  sense,  and  every  sober 
qualification,  he  was  far  my  superior. 

44  I entered  on  the  farm  with  a full  resolution,  4 Come, 
go  to,  I will  be  wise ! * I read  farming  books  ; I calculated 
crops  ; I attended  markets  ; and,  in  short,  in  spite  of  4 the 
devil,  and  the  world,  and  the  flesh,’  I believe  I should 
have  been  a wise  man ; but,  the  first  year,  from  unfortu- 
nately buying  bad  seed,  the  second,  from  a late  harvest, 
we  lost  half  our  crops.  This  overset  all  my  wisdom,  and 
I returned,  4 like  the  dog  to  his  vomit,  and  the  sow  that 
was  washed,  to  her  wallowing  in  the  mire.’ 

44 1 now  began  to  be  known  in  the  neighborhood  as  a 
maker  of  rhymes.  The  first  of  my  poetic  offspring  that 
saw  the  light  was  a burlesque  lamentation  on  a quarrel 
between  two  reverend  Calvinists,  both  of  them  dramatis 
persona  in  my  Holy  Fair.  I had  a notion  myself  that  the 
piece  had  some  merit ; but  to  prevent  the  worst,  I gave  a 
copy  to  a friend  who  was  very  fond  of  such  things,  and 
told  him  that  I could  not  guess  who  was  the  author  of  it, 
but  that  I thought  it  pretty  clever.  With  a certain  de- 
scription of  the  clergy,  as  well  as  laity,  it  met  with  a roar 
of  applause.  Holy  Willie’s  Prayer  next  made  its  appear- 
ance, and  alarmed  the  kirk-session  so  much,  that  they  held 
several  meetings  to  look  over  their  spiritual  artillery,  if 
haply  any  of  it  might  be  pointed  against  profane  rhymers. 
Unluckily  for  me,  my  wanderings  led  me,  on  another  side, 
within  point-blank  shot  of  their  heaviest  metal.  This  is 
the  unfortunate  story  that  gave  rise  to  my  printed  poem. 
The  Lament.  This  was  a most  melancholy  affair,  which  I 
cannot  yet  bear  to  reflect  on,  and  had  nearly  given  me  one 
or  two  of  the  principal  qualifications  for  a place  among 
those  who  have  lost  the  chart,  and  mistaken  the  reckoning 
of  rationality.*  I gave  up  my  part  of  the  farm  to  my 


* This  distraction  of  mind  arose  from  the  misery  and  sorrow  in  which 
he  involved  Jean  Armour,  afterwards  Mrs.  Burns.  She  was  a great 
favorite  of  her  father.  The  intimation  of  a marriage  was  the  first  sug- 
3# 


30  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

brother  ; in  truth  it  was  only  nominally  mine  ; and  made 
what  little  preparation  was  in  my  power  for  Jamaica.  But, 
before  leaving  my  native  country  for  ever,  I resolved  to 
publish  my  poems.  I weighed  my  productions  as  impar- 
tially as  was  in  my  power  : I thought  they  had  merit ; and 
it  was  a delicious  idea,  that  T should  be  called  a clever  fel- 
low, even  though  it  should  never  reach  my  ears  — a poor 
negro-driver,  or  perhaps  a victim  to  that  inhospitable  clime, 
and  gone  to  the  world  of  spirits ! I can  truly  say,  that 
pauvre  inconnu  as  I then  was,  I had  pretty  nearly  as  high 
an  idea  of  myself  and  of  my  works,  as  I have  at  this  mo- 
ment, when  the  public  has  decided  in  their  favor.  It  was 
my  opinion,  that  the  mistakes  and  blunders,  both  in  a ra- 
tional and  religious  point  of  view,  of  which  we  see  thou- 
sands daily  guilty,  are  owing  to  their  ignorance  of  them- 
selves. To  know  myself,  has  been  all  along  my  constant 
study.  I weighed  myself  alone  ; I balanced  myself  with 
others  ; I watched  every  means  of  information,  to  see  how 
much  ground  I occupied  as  a man  and  as  a poet ; I studied 
assiduously  nature’s  design  in  my  formation  — where  the 
lights  and  shades  in  my  character  were  intended.  I was 
pretty  confident  my  poems  would  meet  with  some  ap- 
plause ; but,  at  the  worst,  the  roar  of  the  Atlantic  would 
deafen  the  voice  of  censure,  and  the  novelty  of  West  Indian 
scenes  make  me  forget  neglect.  I threw  off  six  hundred 
copies,  of  which  I had  got  subscriptions  for  about  three 
hundred  and  fifty.  My  vanity  was  highly  gratified  by  the 


gestion.  he  received  of  her  real  situation.  lie  was  in  the  greatest  dis- 
tress, and  fainted  away.  The  marriage  did  not  appear  to  him  to  make 
the  matter  better.  He  expressed  a wish  that  the  agreement  between 
them  should  be  cancelled  This  was  communicated  to  Burns.  He  felt 
the  deepest  anguish  of  mind.  He  offered  to  stay  at  home,  and  provide 
for  his  wife  and  family  by  every  exertion  in  his  power.  Even  this  was 
not  approved  of ; and  humble  as  Jean  Armour’s  station  was,  and  great 
though  her  imprudence  had  been,  she  was  still  thought,  by  her  partial 
parents,  to  look  forward  to  a more  advantageous  connexion  than  that 
which  now  presented  itself. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  31 

reception  I met  with  from  the  public  ; and  besides,  I pock- 
eted, all  expenses  deducted,  nearly  twenty  pounds.  This 
sum  came  very  seasonably,  as  I was  thinking  of  indenting 
myself,  for  want  of  money,  to  procure  my  passage.  As 
soon  as  I was  master  of  nine  guineas,  the  price  of  wafting 
me  to  the  torrid  zone,  I took  a steerage  passage  in  the  first 
ship  that  was  to  sail  from  the  Clyde,  for 

‘Hungry  ruin  had  me  in  the  wind.’ 

“ I had  been  for  some  days  skulking  from  covert  to  cov- 
ert, under  all  the  terrors  of  a jail ; as  some  ill-advised  peo- 
ple had  uncoupled  the  merciless  pack  of  the  law  at  my 
heels.* *  I had  taken  the  last  farewell  of  my  few  friends, 
my  chest  was  on  the  road  to  Greenock  ; I had  composed 
the  last  song  I should  ever  measure  in  Caledonia.  The 
gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast,  — when  a letter  from  Dr. 
Blacklock,  to  a friend  of  mine,  overthrew  all  my  schemes, 
by  opening  new  prospects  to  my  poetic  ambition.  The 
doctor  belonged  to  a set  of  critics,  for  whose  applause  I 
had  not  dared  to  hope.  His  opinion,  that  I would  meet 
with  encouragement  in  Edinburgh,  for  a second  edition, 
fired  me  so  much,  that  away  I posted  for  that  city,  without 
a single  acquaintance,  or  a single  letter  of  introduction. 
The  baneful  star  that  had  so  long  shed  its  blasting  influ- 
ence in  my  zenith,  for  once  made  a revolution  to  the  nadir  ; 
and  a kind  Providence  placed  me  under  the  patronage  of 
one  of  the  noblest  of  men,  the  earl  of  Glcncairn.  Oublie 
moi , Grand  Dieu>  si  jamais  je  V oublie  ! 

“ I need  relate  no  farther.  At  Edinburgh  I was  in  a 
new  world ; I mingled  among  many  classes  of  men,  but 
all  of  them  new  to  me,  and  I was  all  attention  to  ‘ catch  * 
the  characters  and  ‘ the  manners  living  as  they  rise/ 
"Whether  I have  profited,  time  will  show.” 


* This  was  to  oblige  him  to  find  security  for  the  maintenance  of  his 
twin-children,  whom  he  was  not  permitted  to  legitimate  by  a marriaga 

• with  their  mother. 


32  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

His  reception  from  men  of  letters,  in  general,  was  flat- 
tering. Dr.  Robertson,  Dr.  Blair,  Dr.  Gregory,  Mr.  Stew- 
art, Mr.  Makenzie,  and  Mr.  Frazer  Tytler,  perceived  and 
acknowledged  his  talents.  He  was  an  acceptable  guest  in 
the  gayest  and  most  elevated  circles,  and  received  from 
female  beauty  and  elegance,  those  attentions  above  all  oth- 
ers most  grateful  to  him.  Among  men  of  rank  and  fashion, 
he  was  particularly  distinguished  by  James,  earl  of  Glen- 
cairn,  who  introduced  him  to  the  notice  and  the  convivial 
society  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt.  But  while  he  was  invited 
into  the  company  of  men  of  virtue  and  taste,  he  was  also 
seduced,  by  pressing  solicitations,  into  the  fellowship  of 
those  whose  habits,  without  being  extremely  gross,  were 
yet  too  licentious  and  dissolute.  The  festive  indulgences 
which  he  enjoyed  among  them,  gradually  deprived  him  of 
his  relish  for  the  temperate  and  austere  virtues.  But  what' 
ever  influence  this  change  produced  on  his  conduct  and 
morals,  his  understanding  suffered  no  correspondent  debase- 
ment. He  estimated  his  new  friends  and  associates  at  their 
proper  value  ; and  manifested  great  discrimination  in  ap- 
preciating the  character  of  those  who  imagined  themselves 
men  of  the  first  order  in  the  walks  of  literature  and 
fashion. 

“ There  are  few  of  the  sore  evils  under  the  sun,”  he  ob- 
serves, “ give  me  more  uneasiness  and  chagrin,  than  the 
comparison  how  a man  of  genius,  nay,  of  avowed  worth, 
is  received  every  where,  with  the  reception  which  a mere 
ordinary  character,  decorated  with  the  trappings  and  futile 
distinctions  of  fortune,  meets.  I imagine  a man  of  abili- 
ties, his  breast  glowing  with  honest  pride,  conscious  that 
men  are  born  equal,  still  giving  4 honor  to  whom  honor  is 
due ; ’ he  meets,  at  a great  man’s  table,  a Squire  Something, 
or  a Sir  Somebody ; he  knows  the  noble  landlord,  at  heart, 
gives  the  bard,  or  whatever  he  is,  a share  of  his  good 
wishes,  beyond,  perhaps,  any  one  at  the  table ; yet  how 
will  it  mortify  him  to  see  a fellow,  whose  abilities  would 
scarcely  have  made  an  eight-penny  tailor,  and  whose  heart 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  33 

is  not  worth  three  farthings,  meet  with  attention  and  no- 
tice, that  are  withheld  from  the  son  of  genius  and  poverty  ! 

“ The  noble  Glencairn  has  wounded  me  to  the  soul  here, 
because  I dearly  esteem,  respect  and  love  him.  He  showed 
so  much  attention  — engrossing  attention  — one  day,  to  the 
only  blockhead  at  table,  (the  whole  company  consisted  of 
his  lordship,  dunderpate,  and  myself,)  that  I was  within 
half  a point  of  throwing  down  my  gage  of  contemptuous 
defiance ; but  he  shook  my  hand,  and  looked  so  benevo- 
lently good  at  parting,  — God  bless  him  ! though  I should 
never  see  him  more,  I shall  love  him  until  my  dying  day  ! 
I am  pleased  to  think  I am  so  capable  of  the  throes  of 
gratitude,  as  I am  miserably  deficient  in  some  other 
virtues. 

“ With  Dr.  Blair  I am  more  at  my  ease.  I never  respect 
him  with  humble  veneration ; but  when  he  kindly  interests 
himself  in  my  welfare,  or  still  more,  when  he  descends 
from  his  pinnacle,  and  meets  me  on  equal  ground  in  con- 
versation, my  heart  overflows  with  what  is  called  liking . 
When  he  neglects  me  for  the  mere  carcass  of  greatness,  or 
when  his  eye  measures  the  difference  of  our  points  of  ele- 
vation, I say  to  myself,  with  scarcely  any  emotion,  what 
do  I care  for  him  or  his  pomp  either  ? 

“It  is  not  easy  forming  an  exact  judgment  of  any  one; 
but,  in  my  opinion,  Dr.  Blair  is  merely  an  astonishing 
proof  of  what  industry  and  application  can  do.  Natural 
parts  like  his  are  frequently  to  be  met  with ; his  vanity  is 
proverbially  known  among  his  acquaintance;  but  he  is 
justly  at  the  head  of  what  may  be  called  fine  writing  ; and 
a critic  of  the  first,  the  very  first,  rank  in  prose  : even  in 
poetry,  a bard  of  nature’s  making  can  only  take  the  pas 
of  him.  He  has  a heart,  not  of  the  very  finest  water,  but 
far  from  being  an  ordinary  one.  In  short,  he  is  truly  a 
worthy  and  most  respectable  character.” 

The  respect  and  sympathy  of  Burns  dwelt  with  keener 
emotion  and  more  intense  interest  on  the  fate  of  Ferguson, 
than  on  the  intercourse  which  he  held  with  persons  of  dis- 


34  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

tinction.  On  the  6th  of  February,  1787,  he  addressed  a 
letter  to  the  bailies  of  Canongate,  Edinburgh,  requesting 
permission  to  erect  a monument  to  his  memory.  “ Gentle- 
men,” said  he,  “ I am  sorry  to  be  told  that  the  remains  of 
Robert  Ferguson,  the  so  justly  celebrated  poet,  a man 
whose  talents,  for  ages  to  come,  will  do  honor  to  our  Cale- 
donian name,  lie  in  your  church-yard,  among  the  ignoble 
dead,  unnoticed  and  unknown.  Some  memorial,  to  direct 
the  steps  of  the  lovers  of  Scottish  song,  when  they  wish 
to  shed  a tear  over  the  narrow  house  of  the  bard  who  is 
no  more,  is  surely  a tribute  due  to  Ferguson’s  memory  — a 
tribute  I wish  to  have  the  honor  of  paying.  I petition  you, 
then,  gentlemen,  to  permit  me  to  lay  a simple  stone  over 
his  revered  ashes,  to  remain  unalienable  property  to  his 
deathless  fame.” 

Burns,  in  consequence  of  this  application,  obtained  leave 
to  gratify  his  desire.*  The  inscription  of  the  stone  is  as 
follows : — 


* A correspondent  of  Burns,  in  alluding  to  this  transaction,  expresses 
himself  in  this  manner : “ So  you  have  obtained  liberty  from  the  magis- 
trates to  erect  a stone  over  Ferguson’s  grave?  I do  not  doubt  it;  such 
things  have  been,  as  Shakspeare  says,  ‘ in  the  olden  time ; ’ 

‘The  poet’s  fate  is  here  in  emblem  shown, 

He  asked  for  bread,  and  he  received  a stone.’ 

It  is,  I believe,  upon  poor  Butler’s  tomb  that  this  is  written.  But  how 
many  poor  brothers  of  Parnassus,  as  well  as  poor  Butler  and  poor  Fer- 
guson, have  asked  for  bread,  and  been  served  with  the  same  sauce ! 

« The  magistrates  gave  you  liberty,  did  they  ? O,  generous  magis- 
trates ! ****** } celebrated  over  the  three  kingdoms  for  his  public  spirit, 
gives  a poor  poet  liberty  to  raise  a tomb  to  a poor  poet’s  memory ! Most 
generous!  ******,  once  upon  a time,  gave  that  same  poet  the  mighty 
sum  of  eighteen  pence  for  a copy  of  his  works.  But  then  it  must  be 
considered  that  the  poet  was  at  this  time  absolutely  starving,  and  be- 
sought his  aid  with  all  the  earnestness  of  hunger ; and  over  and  above 
he  received  a ********,  worth  at  least  one-third  of  the  value,  in 
exchange,  but  which,  I believe,  the  poet  afterwards  very  ungratefully 
expunged.” 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  35 

HERE  LIES  ROBERT  FERGUSON,  POET. 

Bom  September  5lh,  1751  — Died  16th  October,  1774. 

No  sculptur’d  marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 

“ No  storied  urn,  nor  animated  bust ; ” 

This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia’s  way 
To  pour  her  sorrows  o’er  her  Poet’s  dust. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  stone  is  as  follows : — 

“By  special  grant  of  the  managers  to  Robert  Burns,  who  erected  this 
stone,  this  burial  place  is  to  remain  for  ever  sacred  to  the  memory  of 
Robert  Ferguson.” 

Shortly  after  paying  this  mark  of  respect  to  the  ashes 
of  a kindred  genius,  he  acquired,  by  the  new  edition  of 
his  poems,  a sum  of  money  more  than  sufficient  for  his 
present  exigencies.  He  therefore  determined  to  gratify  a 
desire  he  had  long  entertained,  of  visiting  some  of  the 
most  interesting  districts  of  his  native  country.  For  this 
purpose,  he  left  Edinburgh  on  the  sixth  of  May ; and  in 
the  course  of  his  journey  was  hospitably  received  at  the 
houses  of  several  gentlemen  of  -worth  and  learning.  After 
proceeding  up  the  Tweed,  through  the  counties  of  Rox- 
burgh and  Selkirk;  penetrating  into  England  as  far  as 
Newcastle;  and  crossing  the  island  to  Carlisle,  he  returned 
through  Anan  and  Dumfries  to  Ayrshire,  after  an  absence 
of  six  months. 

It  will  easily  be  conceived  with  what  pleasure  and  pride 
he  was  received  by  his  mother,  his  brothers  and  sisters. 
He  had  left  them  poor,  and  comparatively  friendless  ; he 
returned  to  them  high  in  public  estimation  and  easy  in  his 
circumstances.  He  returned  to  them,  unchanged  in  his 
ardent  affections,  and  ready  to  share  with  them,  to  the 
uttermost  farthing,  the  pittance  that  fortune  had  be- 
stowed. 

Having  remained  with  them  a few  days,  he  proceeded 
again  to  Edinburgh,  and  immediately  set  out  on  a tour  to 
the  highlands.  From  this  journey  he  returned  to  his  rela- 
tions in  his  native  country,  renewing  his  friendships  and 
extending  his  acquaintance. 


36  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Ill  August,  he  made  another  visit  to  Edinburgh,  whence 
he  travelled  in  company  with  Mr.  Adair,  through  Linlith- 
gow, Carron,  Stirling,  the  vale  of  Devon,  and  Harvieston. 
In  a visit  to  Mrs.  Bruce,  of  Clackmanan,  a lady  above 
ninety,  the  lineal  descendant  of  that  race  which  gave  the 
Scottish  throne  its  brightest  ornament,  his  feelings  were 
powerfully  interested.  Though  almost  deprived  of  speech 
by  a paralytic  affection,  she  preserved  her  hospitality  and 
urbanity.  She  was  in  possession  of  the  helmet  and  twro- 
handed  sword  of  her  great  ancestor,  with  which  she  con- 
ferred on  her  two  visiters  the  honor  of  knighthood,  remark- 
ing, that  she  had  a better  right  to  confer  that  title  than 
some  people. 

At  Dunfermline  they  visited  the  ruined  abbey,  and  the 
abbey-church,  now  consecrated  to  Presbyterian  worship. 
Here  Mr.  Adair  mounted  the  cutty-stool,  or  stool  of  repen- 
tance, assuming  the  character  of  a penitent  for  fornication, 
while  Burns,  from  the  pulpit,  addressed  to  him  a ludicrous 
reproof  and  exhortation,  parodied  from  that  which  had 
been  delivered  to  himself  in  Ayrshire,  where  he  had  once 
been  one  of  seven  who  mounted  the  seat  of  shame  to- 
gether. 

In  the  church-yard,  two  broad  flag-stones  marked  the 
grave  of  Robert  Bruce,  for  whose  memory  Burns  had  a 
more  than  common  veneration.  lie  knelt  and  kissed  the 
stone  with  sacred  fervor,  and  heartily  ( suns  ut  mos  erat ) 
execrated  the  worse  than  Gothic  neglect  of  the  first  of 
Scottish  heroes.  He  afterwards  returned,  with  Mr.  Adair, 
to  Edinburgh  by  Kinross,  (on  the  shore  of  Lochlevcn,)  and 
Queen’s  ferry. 

These  journeys,  however,  did  not  satisfy  the  curiosity 
of  Burns.  About  the  beginning  of  September,  he  again 
set  out  from  the  metropolis,  on  a more  extended  tour  to 
the  highlands,  in  company  with  Mr.  Nicol,  assistant  teacher 
in  the  high  school.  After  passing  through  the  heart  of 
that  mountainous  division  of  their  native  country,  they 
stretched  northwards  about  ten  miles  beyond  Inverness. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  37 

• 

There  they  bent  their  course  eastward,  across  the  island, 
and  returned  by  the  shore  of  the  German  sea,  to  Edin- 
burgh. In  the  course  of  this  journey,  they  visited  a num- 
ber of  remarkable  scenes  ; and  the  imagination  of  Burns 
was  constantly  excited  by  the  wild  and  sublime  scenery 
through  which  he  passed. 

Having  settled  with  his  publisher,  in  February,  1788,  he 
found  himself  master  of  nearly  five  hundred  pounds,  after 
discharging  all  his  expenses.  To  his  brother  Gilbert,  who 
had  taken  upon  him  the  support  of  their  aged  mother,  and 
was  struggling  with  many  difficulties  in  the  farm  of  Moss- 
giel,  he  immediately  advanced  two  hundred  pounds.  With 
the  remainder  he  resolved  on  settling  himself  for  life  in  the 
occupation  of  agriculture,  and  took  the  farm  of  Ellisland, 
on  the  banks  of  the  Nith,  six  miles  above  Dumfries,  on 
which  he  entered  at  Whitsunday. 

When  he  had  in  this  manner  arranged  his  plans  for 
futurity,  his  generous  heart  turned  to  the  object  of  his  at- 
tachment ; and,  listening  to  no  considerations  but  those  of 
honor  and  affection,  he  led  her  to  the  altar,  and  joined 
with  her  in  a public  declaration  of  marriage.  His  notice 
of  this  event,  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  is  truly  honorable  to  his 
feelings.  “ "When  Jean  found  herself,”  says  he,  “ as  wo- 
men wish  to  be  who  love  their  lords,  as  I loved  her  nearly 
to  distraction,  we  took  steps  for  a private  marriage.  Her 
parents  got  the  hint,  and  not  only  forbade  me  her  company 
and  the  house,  but  on  my  rumored  West  Indian  voyage, 
got  a warrant  to  put  me  in  jail  till  I should  find  security 
in  my  about-to-be  paternal  relation.  You  know  my  lucky 
reverse  of  fortune.  On  my  eclatant  return  to  Mauchline, 
I was  made  very  welcome  to  visit  my  girl.  The  usual 
consequences  began  to  betray  her ; and,  as  I was  at  that 
time  laid  up  a cripple  in  Edinburgh,  she  was  turned  — lit- 
erally turned  out  of  doors  ; and  I wrote  to  a friend  to  shel- 
ter her  till  my  return,  when  our  marriage  was  declared. 
Her  happiness  or  misery  was  in  my  hands  ; and  who 

COULD  TRIFLE  WITH  SUCH  A DEPOSITE  ? ” 

4 


38 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURiXS. 


He  now  engaged  in  rebuilding  the  dwelling-house  on 
his  farm,  which,  in  the  state  he  found  it,  was  inadequate 
to  the  accommodation  of  his  family.  On  this  occasion,  he 
resumed  at  times  the  occupation  of  a laborer,  and  found 
neither  his  strength  nor  his  skill  impaired.  Pleased  with 
surveying  the  grounds  he  was  about  to  cultivate,  and  with 
rearing  a habitation  that  might  give  shelter  to  his  wife  and 
children,  and,  as  he  fondly  hoped,  to  his  own  gray  hairs, 
sentiments  of  independence  buoyed  up  his  mind ; pictures 
of  domestic  content  and  peace  rose  on  his  imagination ; 
and  a few  days  passed  away,  the  most  tranquil,  and  per- 
haps the  happiest  he  had  ever  experienced. 

His  industry,  however,  was  frequently  interrupted  by 
visiting  his  family  in  Ayrshire ; and,  as  the  distance  was 
too  great  for  a single  day’s  journey,  he  generally  spent  a 
night  at  an  inn  on  the  road.  On  such  occasions,  he  some- 
times fell  into  company,  and  was  drawn  into  irregular  and 
intemperate  habits.  His  appointment  in  the  excise,  which 
was  completed  in  autumn,  1789,  likewise  obstructed  his 
agricultural  pursuits.  He  was  unable  to  reconcile  the  busi- 
ness of  the  two  occupations.  His  farm  was  in  a great 
measure  abandoned  to  his  servants,  while  he  was  engaged 
in  performing  his  official  duties.  He  might  be  seen,  now 
and  then,  in  the  spring,  directing  his  plough,  a labor  in 
which  he  excelled  ; or  with  a white  sheet,  containing  his 
seed-corn,  slung  across  his  shoulders,  striding  with  meas- 
ured steps  along  his  turned-up  furrows,  and  scattering  the 
grain  in  the  earth.  Put  his  farm  no  longer  occupied  the 
principal  part  of  his  thoughts.  It  was  not  at  Ellisland 
that  he  wras  now  in  general  to  be  found.  Mounted  on 
horseback,  this  high-minded  poet  was  pursuing  the  default- 
ers of  the  revenue,  among  the  hills  and  vales  of  Nithsdale, 
his  roving  eye  wandering  over  the  charms  of  nature,  and 
muttering  his  wayward  fancies  as  he  moved  along. 

Besides  his  duties  in  the  excise,  other  circumstances  in- 
terfered with  his  attention  to  his  farm.  He  engaged  in  the 
formation  and  management  of  a society  for  purchasing  and 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


39 


circulating  books  among  the  farmers  of  his  neighborhood ; 
and  occasionally  occupied  himself  in  composing  songs  for 
the  musical  work  of  Mr.  Johnson,  then  in  the  course  of 
publication.  These  engagements,  though  useful  and  hon- 
orable, necessarily  contributed  to  the  abstraction  of  his 
thoughts,  and  the  neglect  of  his  rural  affairs. 

The  consequences  may  easily  be  imagined.  Notwith- 
standing the  prudence  and  good  management  of  Mrs. 
Burns,  he  found  it  necessary,  after  the  expiration  of  three 
years  and  a half,  to  relinquish  his  lease.  His  employment 
in  the  excise  originally  produced  fifty  pounds  per  annum. 
He  was  now  appointed  to  a new  district,  the  emoluments 
of  which  rose  to  about  seventy.  Hoping  to  support  him- 
self and  his  family  on  this  humble  income,  till  promotion 
should  reach  him,  he  removed  to  a small  house  in  Dum- 
fries, about  the  end  of  the  year  1791. 

His  great  celebrity  made  him  an  object  of  interest  and 
curiosity  to  strangers,  and  few  persons  passed  through 
Dumfries  without  an  attempt  to  see  him,  and  to  enjoy 
the  pleasure  of  his  conversation.  As  he  could  not  receive 
them  conveniently  at  home,  these  interviews  passed  at  the 
inns  of  the  town,  and  often  terminated  in  convivial  ex- 
cesses. Among  the  inhabitants,  also,  there  were  never 
wanting  persons  to  lead  or  accompany  him  to  the  tavern ; 
to  applaud  the  sallies  of  his  wit ; and  to  witness  at  once 
the  strength  and  the  degradation  of  his  genius. 

In  the  four  years  that  he  lived  in  Dumfries,  he  produced 
many  of  his  beautiful  lyrics  ; and  cheerfully  consented  to 
give  his  aid  to  a collection  of  original  Scottish  airs  and 
verses,  projected  by  George  Thomson,  of  Edinburgh.  Du- 
ring this  time,  he  made  several  excursions  into  the  neigh- 
boring country.  In  one  of  these  he  passed  through  Glen- 
denwynes,  a beautiful  situation  on  the  banks  of  the  Dee, 
in  company  with  Mr.  Syme,  and  reached  Kenmore,  where 
they  remained  three  days  at  the  seat  of  Mr.  Gordon.  On 
leaving  Kenmore  for  Gatehouse,  they  took  the  moor-road, 
where  every  thing  presented  a wild  and  desolate  aspect. 


40  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  * 

The  sky  appeared  to  sympathise  with  the  dreariness  of  the 
soil.  It  became  lowering  and  dark.  Gleams  of  sheeted 
lightning  were  followed  by  the  awful  rolling  of  thunder. 
Burns  spoke  not  a word,  but  seemed  wrapped  in  medita- 
tion. In  a little  while  the  rain  began  to  fall ; and,  for  three 
hours,  it  poured  in  torrents  on  the  waste.  In  the  midst 
of  this  storm,  though  drenched  as  it  were  by  the  embattled 
elements,  he  remained  absorbed  in  thought,  wrholly  inat- 
tentive to  the  descending  floods.  He  was  equally  regard- 
less of  every  thing  around  him  during  his  ride  home  from 
St.  Mary’s  isle ; and  his  companion  did  not  venture  to  dis- 
turb him.  Next  day  he  produced  the  celebrated  martial, 
hymn,  entitled  liobcrt  Bruce’s  Address  to  his  Army,  a 
hymn  unparalleled  in  the  annals  of  modern  poetry,  and 
equal  to  the  happiest  efforts  of  the  greatest  geniuses  of 
antiquity. 

Burns  had  entertained  hopes  of  promotion  in  the  excise ; 
but  circumstances  occurred  which  prevented  their  fulfil- 
ment. The  events  of  the  French  revolution,  which  inter- 
ested the  feelings  of  every  thinking  mind,  were  com- 
mented on  by  Burns  in  a manner  very  different  from  what 
might  have  been  expected  from  an  officer  under  govern- 
ment. Information  of  his  sentiments  were  given  to  the 
board  of  excise ; an  inquiry  was  instituted  into  his  con- 
duct ; and,  after  being  reprimanded,  he  was  suffered  to 
retain  his  situation. 

This  circumstance  made  a deep  impression  on  his  mind. 
Fame  exaggerated  his  misfortune,  and  represented  him  as 
actually  dismissed  from  his  office  ; and  this  report  induced 
gentlemen  of  much  respectability  to  propose  a subscription 
in  his  favor.  But  he  refused  the  offer  with  great  elevation 
of  sentiment,  and  nobly  defended  himself  against  the  im- 
putation of  having  made  submission,  for  the  sake  of  his 
office,  unworthy  of  his  character. 

“The  partiality  of  my  countrymen/’  he  observes,  “has 
brought  me  forward  as  a man  of  genius,  and  has  given  me 
a character  to  support.  In  the  poet  I have  avowed  manly 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  4! 

and  independent  sentiments,  which.  I hope  have  been 
found  in  the  man.  Reasons  of  no  less  weight  than  the 
support  of  a wife  and  children,  have  pointed  my  present 
occupation  as  the  only  eligible  line  of  life  within  my  reach. 
Still  my  honest  fame  is  my  dearest  concern,  and  a thou- 
sand times  have  I trembled  at  the  idea  of  the  degrading 
epithets  that  malice  or  misrepresentation  may  affix  to  my 
name.  Often,  in  blasting  anticipation,  have  I listened  to 
some  future  hackney  scribbler,  with  the  heavy  malice  of 
savage  stupidity,  exultingly  asserting,  that  Burns,  notwith- 
standing the  fanfaronade  of  independence  to  be  found  in 
his  works,  and  after  being  held  up  to  public  view,  and  to 
public  estimation,  as  a man  of  some  genius,  yet,  quite  des- 
titute of  resources  within  himself  to  support  his  borrowed 
dignity,  dwindled  into  a paltry  exciseman,  and  slunk  out 
the  rest  of  his  insignificant  existence  in  the  meanest  of 
pursuits,  and  among  the  lowest  of  mankind. 

“In  your  illustrious  hands,  sir,  permit  me  to  lodge  my 
strong  disavowal  and  defiance  of  such  slanderous  falsehoods. 
Burns  was  a poor  man  prom  ms  birth,  and  an  exciseman 

BY  NECESSITY  ; BUT  — I WILL  SAY  IT  ! — THE  STERLING  OP 
HIS  HONEST  WORTH,  POVERTY  COULD  NOT  DEBASE,  AND  HIS 
INDEPENDENT  BRITISH  SPIRIT,  OPPRESSION  MIGHT  BEND,  BUT 
COULD  NOT  SUBDUE.” 

It  was  one  of  the  last  acts  of  his  life  to  copy  this  heart- 
rending letter  into  a book  which  he  kept  for  the  purpose 
of  recording  such  circumstances  as  he  thought  worthy  of 
preservation.  Upwards  of  a year  before  his  death,  there 
was  an  evident  decline  in  his  personal  appearance ; and 
though  his  appetite  continued  unimpaired,  he  was  himself 
sensible  that  his  constitution  was  sinking.  Prom  October, 
1795,  to  the  January  following,  an  accidental  complaint 
confined  him  to  the  house.  A few  days  after  he  began  to 
go  abroad,  he  dined  at  a tavern,  and  returned  home  about 
three  o’clock  in  a very  cold  morning,  benumbed  and  intox- 
icated. This  was  followed  by  an  attack  of  rheumatism, 
which  confined  him  about  a week.  His  appetite  began  to 
4# 


42 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


fail,  his  hand  shook,  and  his  voice  faltered  on  any  exertion 
or  emotion ; his  pulse  became  weaker  and  more  rapid,  and 
pain  in  the  larger  joints,  and  in  the  hands  and  feet,  de- 
prived him  of  sleep.  In  the  month  of  June,  1796,  he  re- 
moved to  Brow,  in  Annandale,  about  ten  miles  from  Dum- 
fries, to  try  the  effects  of  sea-bathing.  Here  he  was  invited 
to  dinner  by  a lady  in  the  neighborhood  ; and,  as  he  was 
unable  to  walk,  she  sent  her  carriage  for  him  to  the  cottage 
where  he  lodged.  As  he  entered  her  apartment,  the  stamp 
of  death  seemed  imprinted  on  his  features.  He  appeared 
already  touching  the  brink  of  eternity.  His  first  saluta- 
tion was,  “ Well,  madam,  have  you  any  commands  for  the 
other  world  ? ” He  ate  little,  and  complained  of  having 
entirely  lost  the  tone  of  his  stomach.  He  spoke  of  his 
death  without  any  of  the  ostentation  of  philosophy,  but 
with  firmness  and  feeling,  as  an  event  likely  to  happen 
very  soon.  His  anxiety  for  his  family  hung  heavy  upon 
him  ; and  when  he  alluded  to  their  approaching  desolation, 
his  heart  was  touched  with  pure  and  unmingled  sorrow. 

At  first  he  imagined  that  bathing  in  the  sea  had  been 
of  benefit  to  him ; the  pains  in  his  limbs  were  relieved ; 
but  this  was  immediately  followed  by  a new  attack  of 
fever.  When  brought  back  to  his  own  house  in  Dumfries, 
on  the  18th  of  July,  he  was  no  longer  able  to  stand  up- 
right. A tremor  pervaded  his  frame;  his  tongue  was 
parched,  and  his  mind  fell  into  a delirium,  when  not 
roused  by  conversation.  On  the  second  and  third  day 
the  fever  increased,  and  his  strength  diminished.  On  the 
fourth,  the  sufferings  of  this  great,  but  ill-fated,  genius 
were  terminated ; and  a life  was  closed,  which  had  been 
embittered  by  suffering,  and  insulted  by  unmerited  cal- 
umny. 

When  his  death  was  known,  it  excited  a deep  and 
mournful  sensation.  It  was  felt  as  a loss  which  no  earthly 
power  could  replace  ; as  the  extinction  of  a prodigy  whoso 
appearance  was  rare  and  uncertain.  He  was  lamented, 
not  merely  like  a common  individual,  by  friends  and  ncigb- 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  43 

bors,  but  by  a whole  country,  whose  pleasures  he  had  an 
exclusive  capacity  to  augment. 

He  left  a widow  and  four  sons.  The  ceremonial  of  his 
interment  was  accompanied  with  military  honors,  not  only 
by  the  corps  of  Dumfries  volunteers,  of  which  he  was  a 
member,  but  by  the  Pencible  infantry,  and  a regiment  of 
Cinque  Port  cavalry  then  quartered  in  Dumfries.  On  the 
same  day,  by  a coincidence  singularly  touching,  Mrs. 
Burns  was  delivered  of  a son,  who  did  not  long  survive 
his  father. 

Burns  was  nearly  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height,  and  of 
a form  that  indicated  agility  as  well  as  strength.  His 
well-raised  forehead,  shaded  with  black,  curling  hair,  ex- 
pressed uncommon  capacity.  His  eyes  were  large,  dark, 
full  of  ardor,  and  animation.  His  face  was  well-formed, 
and  his  countenance  strikingly  interesting. 

Of  his  general  behavior,  every  one  spoke  in  the  highest 
terms.  It  usually  bespoke  a mind  conscious  of  superior 
talents,  not  however  unmixed  with  the  affections  which 
beget  familiarity  and  affability.  Ilis  conversation  was 
extremely  fascinating ; rich  in  wit,  humor,  whim,  and 
occasionally  in  serious  and  apposite  reflection.  No  man 
had  a quicker  apprehension  of  right  and  wrong,  or  a 
stronger  sense  of  what  was  ridiculous  and  mean.  Neither 
chicanery  nor  sordidness  ever  appeared  in  his  conduct. 
Even  in  the  midst  of  distress,  while  his  feeling  heart  sunk 
under  the  secret  consciousness  of  indigence,  and  the  appre- 
hensions of  absolute  want,  he  bore  himself  loftily  to  the 
world.  Pie  died  in  the  utmost  penury,  but  not  in  debt ; 
and  left  behind  him  a name  which  will  be  remembered  as 
long  as  departed  worth  and  goodness  are  esteemed  among 
men. 

After  contemplating  the  melancholy  story  of  his  life,  it 
is  impossible  not  to  heave  a sigh  at  the  asperity  of  his 
fortune,  while  we  reprobate  the  conduct  of  those  who  drew 
him  from  the  simplicity  of  humble  life,  and  left  him  a prey 
to  anxiety  and  want,  to  sorrow  and  despair. 


44 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


Of  his  poems,  which  have  been  so  often  printed  and  so 
eagerly  read,  it  is  unnecessary  to  enter  into  a critical  ex- 
amination. All  readers  of  taste  and  sensibility  assign  him 
the  first  place  among  the  poets  of  his  country ; and  ac- 
knowledge the  presence  of  that  “ light  from  heaven”  which 
consecrates  and  eternizes  every  monument  of  genius. 


PREFACE 

TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 


The  following  trifles  are  not  the  production  of  the  poet 
who,  with  all  the  advantages  of  learned  art,  and  perhaps 
amid  the  elegances  and  idleness  of  upper  life,  looks  down 
for  a rural  theme,  with  an  eye  to  Theocritus  or  Virgil. 
To  the  author  of  this,  these  and  other  celebrated  names, 
their  countrymen,  are,  at  least  in  their  original  language, 
a fountain  shut  up,  and  a book  sealed.  Unacquainted  with 
the  necessary  requisites  for  commencing  poetry  by  rule, 
he  sings  the  sentiments  and  manners  he  felt  and  saw  in 
himself,  and  his  rustic  compeers  around  him,  in  his  and 
their  native  language.  Though  a rhymer  from  his  earliest 
years,  at  least  from  the  earliest  impulses  of  the  softer  pas- 
sions, it  was  not  till  very  lately  that  the  applause,  perhaps 
the  partiality  of  friendship,  wakened  his  vanity  so  far  as 
to  make  him  think  any  thing  of  his  worth  showing  ; and 
none  of  the  following  works  were  composed  with  a view 
to  the  press.  To  amuse  himself  with  the  little  creations 
of  his  own  fancy,  amid  the  toil  and  fatigues  of  a laborious 
life  ; to  transcribe  the  various  feelings,  the  loves,  the  griefs, 
the  hopes,  the  fears,  in  his  own  breast ; to  find  some  kind 
of  counterpoise  to  the  struggles  of  a world,  always  an  alien 
scene,  a task  uncouth  to  the  poetical  mind,  — these  were 
his  motives  for  courting  the  muses,  and  in  these  he  found 
Poetry  to  be  its  own  reward. 

Now  that  he  appears  in  the  public  character  of  an  au- 


46  PREFACE. 

thor,  lie  does  it  “ with,  fear  and  trembling.”  So  dear  is 
fame  to  the  rhyming  tribe,  that  even  he,  an  obscure,  name- 
less bard,  shrinks  aghast  at  the  thought  of  being  brand- 
ed as  an  impertinent  blockhead,  obtruding  his  nonsense 
on  the  world ; and,  because  he  can  make  a shift  to  jingle 
a few  doggerel  Scotch  rhymes  together,  looking  upon  him- 
self as  a poet  of  no  small  consequence,  forsooth. 

It  is  an  observation  of  that  celebrated  poet,  Shenstone, 
wrhose  divine  elegies  do  honor  to  our  language,  our  nation, 
and  our  species,  that  “ Humility  has  depressed  many  a 
genius  to  a hermit,  but  never  raised  one  to  fame  ! ” If 
any  critic  catches  at  the  word  genius , the  author  tells  him, 
once  for  all,  that  he  certainly  looks  upon  himself  as  pos- 
sessed of  some  poetic  abilities,  otherwise  his  publishing  in 
the  manner  he  has  done,  would  be  a manoeuvre  below  the 
worst  character  which,  he  hopes,  his  worst  enemy  will 
ever  give  him.  But  to  the  genius  of  a Ramsay,  or  the 
glorious  dawnings  of  the  poor,  unfortunate  Ferguson,  he, 
with  equal  unaffected  sincerity,  declares,  that,  even  in  his 
highest  pulse  of  vanity,  he  has  not  the  most  distant  pre- 
tensions. These  two  justly- admired  Scotch  poets  he  has 
often  had  in  his  eye  in  the  following  pieces ; but  rather 
with  a view  to  kindle  at  their  flame,  than  for  servile  imi- 
tation. 

To  his  subscribers,  the  author  returns  his  most  sincere 
thanks,  — not  the  mercenary  bow  over  a counter,  but  the 
heart-throbbing  gratitude  of  the  bard,  conscious  how  much 
he  owes  to  benevolence  and  friendship,  for  gratifying  him, 
if  he  deserves  it,  in  that  dearest  wish  of  every  poetic  bos- 
om— to  be  distinguished.  He  begs  his  readers,  particu- 
larly the  learned  and  the  polite,  who  may  honor  him  with 
a perusal,  that  they  will  make  every  allowance  for  educa- 
tion and  circumstances  of  life ; but,  if,  after  a fair,  candid, 
and  impartial  criticism,  he  shall  stand  convicted  of  dull- 
ness and  nonsense,  let  him  be  done  by  as  he  would  in  that 
case  do  by  others ; — let  him  be  condemned,  without  mercy, 
to  contempt  and  oblivion. 


DEDICATION 

TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 

TO  THE  NOBLEMEN  AND  GENTLEMEN  OP  THE  CALEDONIAN 
HUNT. 

My  Lords  and  Gentlemen : — 

A Scottish  bard,  proud  of  the  name,  and  whose  highest 
ambition  is  to  sing  in  his  country’s  service  — where  shall 
he  so  properly  look  for  patronage,  as  to  the  illustrious 
names  of  his  native  land ; those  who  bear  the  honors  and 
inherit  the  virtues  of  their  ancestors  ? The  poetic  genius 
of  my  country  found  me,  as  the  prophetic  bard,  Elijah,  did 
Elisha  — at  the  plough  ; and  threw  her  inspiring  mantle 
over  me.  She  bade  me  sing  the  loves,  the  joys,  the  rural 
scenes,  and  rural  pleasures,  of  my  native  soil,  in  my  native 
tongue ; I tuned  my  wild,  artless  notes,  as  she  inspired. 
She  whispered  me  to  come  to  this  ancient  metropolis  of 
Caledonia,  and  lay  my  songs  under  your  honored  protec- 
tion. 

Though  much  indebted  to  your  goodness,  I do  not  ap- 
proach you,  my  Lords  and  Gentlemen,  in  the  usual  style 
of  dedication,  to  thank  you  for  past  favors.  That  path  is 
so  hackneyed  by  prostituted  learning,  that  honest  rusticity 
is  ashamed  of  it.  Nor  do  I present  this  address  with  the 
venal  soul  of  a servile  author,  looking  for  a continuation 
of  those  favors : I was  bred  to  the  plough,  and  am  inde- 
pendent. I come  to  claim  the  common  Scottish  name  with 
you,  my  illustrious  countrymen  ; and  to  tell  the  world  that 


DEDICATION. 


48 

I glory  in  the  title.  I come  to  congratulate  my  country 
that  the  blood  of  her  ancient  heroes  still  runs  uncontami- 
nated ; and  that  from  your  courage,  knowledge,  and  pub- 
lic spirit,  she  may  expect  protection,  wealth,  and  liberty. 
In  the  last  place,  I come  to  proffer  my  warmest  wishes  to 
the  great  Fountain  of  honor,  the  Monarch  of  the  Universe, 
for  your  welfare  and  happiness.  When  you  go  forth  to 
waken  the  echoes,  in  the  ancient  and  favorite  amusement 
of  your  forefathers,  may  Pleasure  ever  be  of  your  party, 
and  may  social  Joy  await  your  return  ! When  harassed 
in  courts  or  camps  with  the  jostlings  of  bad  men  and  bad 
measures,  may  the  honest  consciousness  of  injured  worth 
attend  your  return  to  your  native  seats ; and  may  domestic 
Plappiness,  with  a smiling  welcome,  meet  you  at  your 
gates  ! May  corruption  shrink  at  your  kindling,  indignant 
glance  ; and  may  tyranny  in  the  ruler,  and  licentiousness 
in  the  people,  equally  find  you  an  inexorable  foe  ! 

I have  the  honor  to  be, 

With  the  sincerest  gratitude, 

And  highest  respect, 

My  Lords  and  Gentlemen, 

Your  most  devoted,  humble  servant, 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  ) 

April  4, 1787.  f 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


POEMS, 

CHIEFLY  SCOTTISH. 

BOOK  I. 

MORAL,  RELIGIOUS,  AND  PRECEPTIVE. 
THE  TWA  DOGS. 

A TALE. 

Twas  in  that  place  o’  Scotland’s  isle, 

That  bears  the  name  o’  Auld  King  Coil, 
Upon  a bonny  day  in  June, 

When  wearing  thro’  the  afternoon, 

Twa  dogs  that  were  na  thrang  at  hame, 
Forgather’d  ance  upon  a time. 

The  first  I’ll  name,  they  ca’d  him  Csesar, 
Was  keepit  for  his  Honor’s  pleasure  ; 

His  hair,  his  size,  his  mouth,  his  lugs, 
Show’d  he  was  nane  o’  Scotland’s  dogs ; 

But  whalpit  some  place  far  abroad, 

Where  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod. 

His  locked,  letter’d  braw  brass  collar, 
Show’d  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar; 


52 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


But  tho’  he  was  o’  high  degree, 

The  fient  a pride  nae  pride  had  he ; 

But  wad  hae  spent  an  hour  caressin’, 

Ev’n  wi’  a tinker-gipsey’s  messin: 

At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 

Nae  tauted  tyke,  tho’  e’er  sae  duddie, 

But  he  wad  stan’t,  as  glad  to  see  him, 

And  stroan’t  on  stanes  an’  hillocks  wi’  him. 

The  tither  was  a ploughman’s  collie, 

A rhyming,  ranting,  raving  billie, 

Wha  for  his  friend  an’  comrade  had  him, 
And  in  his  freaks  had  Luath  ca’d  him, 

After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang,# 

Was  made  lang  syne — Lord  knows  how  lang  ! 

He  was  a gash  an’  faithful  tyke. 

As  ever  lap  a sheugh  or  dyke, 

His  honest,  sonsie,  baws’nt  face, 

Ay  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place. 

His  breast  was  white,  his  touzie  back 
Weel  clad  wi’  coat  o’  glossy  black; 

His  gawcie  tail,  wi’  upward  curl, 

Hung  o’er  his  hurdies  wi’  a swirl. 

Nae  doubt  but  they  were  fain  o’  ither, 

An’  unco  pack  an’  thick  thegither ; 

Wi’  social  nose  whyles  snuff’d  and  snowkit, 
Whyles  mice  and  moudieworts  they  howkit, 
Whyles  scour’d  awa  in  lang  excursion, 

An’  worry’d  ither  in  diversion ; 

Until  wi’  daffin  weary  grown, 

Upon  a knowe  they  sat  them  down, 


* Cuthullin’s  dog  in  Ossian’s  Fingal. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  53 

And  there  began  a lang  digression 
About  the  Lords  o’  the  Creation. 

CJESAR. 

I’ve  aften  wondered,  honest  Luath, 

What  sort  o’  life  poor  dogs  like  you  have ; 

An’  when  the  gentry’s  life  I saw, 

What  way  poor  bodies  liv’d  ava’. 

Our  Laird  gets  in  his  racked  rents, 

His  coals,  his  kain,  and  a’  his  stents : 

He  rises  when  he  likes  himsel’ ; 

His  flunkies  answer  at  the  bell ; 

He  ca’s  his  coach,  he  ca’s  his  horse ; 

He  draws  a bonie  silken  purse 

As  lang’s  my  tail,  where,  thro’  the  steeks, 

The  yellow-letter’d  Geordie  keeks. 

Frae  morn  to  e’en  it’s  nought  but  toiling, 

At  baking,  roasting,  frying,  boiling ; 

An’  tho’  the  gentry  first  are  stechin, 

Yet  e’en  the  ha’  folk  fill  their  pechin 
Wi’  sauce,  ragouts,  and  sic  like  trashtrie, 

That’s  little  short  o’  downright  wastrie. 

Our  Whipper-in,  wee  blastit  wonner, 

Poor  worthless  elf,  it  eats  a dinner, 

Better  than  ony  tenant  man 
His  Honor  has  in  a’  the  lan’; 

An’  what  poor  cot-folk  pit  their  painch  in, 

I own  its  past  my  comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth,  Caesar,  whyles  they’re  fasht  enough 
A cotter  howkin  in  a sheugh, 

Wi’  dirty  stanes  begin  a dyke, 

5* 


54  BURNS’S  POEMS 

Boring  a quarry,  and  sic  like. 

Himsel,  a wife,  he  thus  sustains, 

A smytrie  o’  wee  duddie  weans, 

An’  nought  but  his  hand  darg,  to  keep 
Them  right  and  tight  in  thack  an’  rape. 

As  when  they  meet  with  sair  disasters, 
Like  loss  o’  health,  or  want  o’  masters, 

Ye  maist  wad  think,  a wee  touch  langer, 
An’  they  maun  starve  o’  cauld  an’  hunger; 
But,  how  it  comes,  I never  kenn’d  yet, 
They’re  maistly  wonderfu’  contented ; 

An’  buirdly  chiels,  and  clever  hizzies, 

Are  bred  in  sic  a way  as  this  is. 

CiESAR. 

But  then  to  see  how  ye’re  negleckit, 
How  huff’d,  and  cuff’d,  and  disrespeckit ! 

L — d,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  little 
For  delvers,  ditchers,  an’  sic  cattle ; 

They  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  folk, 

A I wad  by  a stinking  brock. 

I’ve  noticed,  on  our  Laird’s  court-day, 
An’  mony  a time  my  heart’s  been  wae, 
Poor  tenant  bodies,  scant  o’  cash, 

How  they  maun  thole  a factor’s  snash : 
He’ll  stamp  and  threaten,  curse  and  swear, 
He’ll  apprehend  them,  poind  their  gear ; 
While  they  maun  stan’,  wi’  aspect  humble, 
An’  hear  it  a’,  an’  fear,  an’  tremble  ! 

I see  how  folks  live  that  hae  riches ; 

But  surely  poor  folk  maun  be  wretches ! 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  55 


LUATH. 

They’re  nae  sae  wretched’s  ane  wad  think, 
Tho’  constantly  on  poortith’s  brink: 

They’re  sae  accustom’d  wi’  the  sight, 

The  view  o’t  gies  them  little  fright. 

Then  chance  and  fortune  are  sae  guided, 
They’re  ay  in  less  or  mair  provided  ; 

An’,  tho’  fatigu’d  with  close  employment, 

A blink  o’  rest’s  a sweet  enjoyment. 

The  dearest  comfort  o’  their  lives, 

Their  grushie  weans  an’  faithfu’  wives ; 

The  prattling  things  are  just  their  pride, 

That  sweetens  a’  their  fire-side. 

An’  whyles  twalpennie  worth  o’  nappy 
Can  make  the  bodies  unco  happy; 

They  lay  aside  their  private  cares, 

To  mind  the  kirk  and  state  affairs ; 

They’ll  talk  o’  patronage  and  priests, 

Wi’  kindling  fury  in  their  breasts, 

Or  tell  what  new  taxation’s  cornin’, 

An’  ferlie  at  the  folk  in  Lon’on. 

As  bleak-faced  Hallowmas  returns, 

They  get  the  jovial,  ranting  kirns, 

When  rural  life,  o’  every  station, 

Unite  in  common  recreation: 

Love  blinks,  Wit  slaps,  and  social  Mirth 
Forgets  there’s  Care  upo’  the  earth. 

That  merry  day  the  year  begins, 

They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  winds  : 


56  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

The  nappy  reeks,  wi’  mantling  ream, 

An’  sheds  a heart-inspiring  steam; 

The  luntin  pipe,  an’  sneeshin  mill, 

Are  handed  round  wi’  right  gude  will; 

The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin  crouse, 

The  young  anes  ranting  thro’  the  house  ■ 
My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  their. 
That  I for  joy  hae  barkit  wi’  them. 

Still  it’s  owre  true  that  ye  hae  said, 

Sic  game  is  now  owre  aften  played. 
There’s  monie  a creditable  stock 
O’  decent,  honest  fawsont  folk, 

Are  riven  out,  baith  root  and  branch, 

Some  rascal’s  pridfu’  greed  to  quench. 

Wha  thinks  to  knit  himsel  the  faster 
In  favor  wi’  some  gentle  Master, 

Wha,  aiblins,  thrang  a-parliamentin, 

For  Britain’s  guid  his  saul  indentin 

CAESAR. 

Haith,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it: 

For  Britain’s  guid ! guid  faith ! I doubt  it ; 
Say,  rather,  gaun  as  Premiers  lead  him, 

An’  saying  aye  or  no ’s  they  bid  him : 

At  operas  an’  plays  parading ; 

Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading; 

Or,  may  be,  in  a frolic  daft, 

To  Hague  or  Calais  takes  a waft; 

To  make  a tour,  an’  tak  a whirl, 

To  learn  bon  ton  an’  see  the  worl’. 

There,  at  Vienna  or  Versailles, 

He  rives  his  father’s  auld  entrails ; 

Or  by  Madrid  he  takes  the  rout. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


57 


To  thrum  guitars,  and  fecht  wi’  nowt; 

Or  down  Italian  vista  startles, 

Wh-re-hunting  among  groves  o’  myrtles: 

Then  bouses  drumbly  German  water 
To  mak  hirnsel  look  fair  and  fatter, 

An’  clear  the  consequential  sorrows, 

Love-gifts  of  Carnival  signoras. 

For  Britain’s  guid ! for  her  destruction ! 

Wi’  dissipation,  feud,  an’  faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech  man ! dear  sirs ! is  that  the  gate 
They  waste  sae  mony  a braw  estate  ? 

Are  we  sae  foughten  an’  harass’d 
For  gear  to  gang  that  gate  at  last  ? 

O,  would  they  stay  aback  frae  courts, 

An’  please  themselves  wi’  countra  sports, 

It  wad  for  every  ane  be  better, 

The  Laird,  the  Tenant,  an’  the  Cotter! 

For  thae  frank,  rantin,  ramblin  billies, 

Fient  haet  o’  them’s  ill-hearted  fellows ! 

Except  for  breakin  o’  their  timmer, 

Or  speakin  lightly  o’  their  limmer, 

Or  shootin  o’  a hare  or  moor-cock, 

The  ne’er  a bit  they’re  ill  to  poor  folk. 

But  will  you  tell  me,  Master  Caesar, 

Sure  great  folk’s  life’s  a life  o’  pleasure? 

Nae  cauld  or  hunger  e’er  can  steer  them, 

The  vera  thought  o’t  need  na  fear  them. 

CiESAR. 

L — d,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  whare  I am, 
The  gentles  ye  wad  ne’er  envy  ’em. 


58 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


It’s  true,  they  need  nae  starve  or  sweat, 
Thro5  winter’s  cauld  or  simmer’s  heat; 
They’ve  nae  sair  wark  to  craze  their  banes, 
An’  fill  auld  age  wi’  grips  an’  granes : 

But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools, 

For  a’  their  colleges  and  schools, 

That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them, 

They  make  enow  themsels  to  vex  them; 

An’  ay  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt  them, 

In  like  proportion  less  will  hurt  them. 

A country-fellow  at  the  pleugh, 

His  acres  till’n,  he’s  right  eneugh ; 

A country  girl  at  her  wheel, 

Her  dizzen’s  done,  she’s  unco  weel : 

But  Gentlemen,  and  Ladies  warst, 

Wi’  ev’n  down  want  o’  wark  are  curst. 

They  loiter,  lounging,  lank,  and  lazy; 

Tho’  deil  haet  ails  them,  yet  uneasy ; 

Their  days  insipid,  dull,  an’  tasteless; 

Their  nights  unquiet,  lang,  and  restless : 

An’  e’en  their  sports,  their  balls,  an’  races, 
Their  galloping  thro’  public  places. 

There’s  sic  parade,  sic  pomp,  an’  art, 

The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 

The  men  cast  out  in  party  matches, 

Then  sowther  a’  in  deep  debauches ; 

Ae  night  they’re  mad  wi’  drink  an’  wh-ring, 
Niest  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 

The  ladies,  arm-in-arm  in  clusters, 

As  great  and  gracious  a’  as  sisters ; 

But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o’  ither, 
They’re  a’  run  deils  an’  jades  thegither ! 
Whyles  o’er  the  wee  bit  cup  an’  platie, 
They  sip  the  scandal  potion  pretty ; 

Or  lee-lang  nights,  wi’  crabbit  leuks, 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


59 


Pore  owre  the  devil’s  pictur’d  beuks  ; 

Stake  on  a chance  a farmer’s  stackyard, 
An’  cheat  like  ony  unhang’d  blackguard. 

There’s  some  exception,  man  an’  woman; 
But  this  is  gentry’s  life  in  common. 

By  this,  the  sun  was  out  o’  sight, 

An’  darker  gloaming  brought  the  night. 

The  bum-clock  humm’d  wi’  lazy  drone ; 

The  kye  stood  routin  i’  the  loan ; 

When  up  they  gat,  and  shook  their  lugs, 
Rejoiced  they  were  nae  men , but  dogs; 

An’  each  took  aff  his  several  way, 

Resolved  to  meet  some  ither  day. 


-o- 


THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR 

A POEM. 

Inscribed  to  J.  £*#******#,  Esq.,  Jhjr. 

The  simple  Bard,  rough  at  the  rustic  plough, 
Learning  his  tuneful  trade  from  every  bough  ; 

The  chanting  linnet,  or  the  mellow  thrush, 

Hailing  the  setting  sun,  sweet,  in  the  green  thorn  bush 
The  soaring  lark,  the  perching  red-breast  shrill, 

Or  deep-ton’d  plovers,  gray,  wild-whistling  o’er  the  hill 
Shall  he,  nurst  in  the  peasant’s  lowly  shed, 

To  hardy  independence  bravely  bred, 

By  early  poverty  to  hardship  steel’d, 

And  train’d  to  arms  in  stern  Misfortune’s  field ; 


60  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Shall  he  be  guilty  of  their  hireling  crimes, 

The  servile,  mercenary  Swiss  of  rhymes  ? 

Or  labor  hard  the  panegyric  close, 

With  all  the  venal  soul  of  dedicating  prose  ? 

No!  though  his  artless  strains  he  rudely  sings, 

And  throws  his  hand  uncouthly  o’er  the  strings, 

He  glows  with  all  the  spirit  of  the  Bard, 

Fame,  honest  fame,  his  great,  his  dear  reward ! 

Still,  if  some  patron’s  gen’rous  care  he  trace, 

Skill’d  in  the  secret  to  bestow  with  grace ; 

When  befriends  his  humble  name, 

And  hands  the  rustic  stranger  up  to  fame, 

With  heart-felt  throes  his  grateful  bosom  swells, 
The  godlike  bliss,  to  give,  alone  excels. 

########### 

’Twas  when  the  stacks  get  on  their  winter-hap, 
And  thack  and  rape  secure  the  toil-worn  crap ; 
Potato-bings  are  snugged  up  frae  skaith 
Of  coming  Winter’s  biting,  frosty  breath ; 

The  bees,  rejoicing  o’er  their  summer  toils, 
Unnumber’d  buds  an’  flowers’  delicious  spoils, 

Seal’d  up,  with  frugal  care,  in  massive  waxen  piles, 
Are  doom’d  by  man,  that  tyrant  o’er  the  weak, 

The  death  o’  devils  smoor’d  wi’  brimstone  reek ; 
The  thundering  guns  are  heard  on  ev’ry  side, 

The  wounded  coveys,  reeling,  scatter  wide ; 

The  feather’d  field-mates,  bound  by  nature’s  tie, 
Sires,  mothers,  children,  in  one  carnage  lie: 

(What  warm,  poetic  heart,  but  inly  bleeds, 

And  execrates  man’s  savage,  ruthless  deeds  !) 

Nae  mair  the  flow’r  in  field  or  meadow  springs; 
Nae  mair  the  grove  with  airy  concert  rings, 

Except,  perhaps,  the  robin’s  whistling  glee, 

Proud  o’  the  height  o’  some  bit  half-land  tree ; 


burns’s  poems.  G1 

The  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny  days, 

Mild,  calm,  serene,  wide  spreads  the  noon-tide  blaze, 
While  thick  the  gossamour  waves  wanton  in  the  rays. 
’Twas  in  that  season,  when  a simple  bard, 

Unknown  and  poor  — simplicity’s  reward  ; 

Ae  night,  within  the  ancient  burgh  of  Ayr, 

By  whim  inspir’d,  or  haply  press’d  wi’  care ; 

He  left  his  bed,  and  took  his  wayward  route, 

And  down  by  Simpson’s*  wheel’d  the  left  about: 
(Whether  impell’d  by  all-directing  Fate, 

To  witness  what  I after  shall  narrate  ; 

Or  whether,  rapt  in  meditation  high, 

He  wandered  out,  he  knew  not  where  nor  why ;) 

The  drowsy  Dungeon-clockf  had  number’d  two, 

And  Wallace  Tow’rf  had  sworn  the  fact  was  true: 
The  tide-swoln  Firth,  with  sullen-sounding  roar, 
Through  the  still  night  dash’d  hoarse  along  the  shore 
All  else  was  hush’d  as  nature’s  closed  e’e ; 

The  silent  moon  shone  high  o’er  tow’r  and  tree: 

The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam, 

Crept,  gently-crusting,  o’er  the  glittering  stream  — 

When  lo ! on  either  hand  the  list’ning  bard, 

The  clanging  sugh  of  whistling  winds  he  heard  ; 
Two  dusky  forms  dart  thro’  the  midnight  air, 

Swift  as  the  GosJ  drives  on  the  wheeling  hare; 

Ane  on  th’  Auld  Brig  his  airy  shape  uprears, 

The  ither  flutters  o’er  the  rising  piers: 

Our  warlock  rhymer  instantly  descry’d 

The  Sprites  that  owre  the  Brigs  of  Ayr  preside. 

(That  bards  are  second-sighted  is  nae  joke, 

And  ken  the  lingo  o’  the  sp’ritual  folk; 


* A noted  tavern  at  the  Auld  Brig'  end.  f The  two  steeples  t Th« 
goshawk,  or  falcon. 

6 


62  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Fays,  Spunkies,  Kelpies,  a’,  they  can  explain  them, 
And  ev’n  the  vera  deils  they  brawly  ken  them.) 

Auld  Brig  appear’d  of  ancient  Pictish  race, 

The  vera  wrinkles  Gothic  in  his  face : 

He  seem’d  as  he  wi’  Time  had  warstl’d  lang, 

Yet  teughly  doure,  he  bade  an  unco  bang. 

New  Brig  was  buskit  in  a braw  new  coat, 

That  he,  at  Lon’on,  frae  ane  Adams,  got ; 

In’s  hand  five  taper  staves  as  smooth’s  a bead, 

Wi’  virls  an’  whirlygigums  at  the  head. 

The  Goth  was  stalking  round  with  anxious  search, 
Spying  the  time-worn  flaws  in  ev’ry  arch; 

It  chanc’d  his  new-come  neebour  took  his  e’e, 

And  e’en  a vex’d  and  angry  heart  had  he  ! 

Wi’  thieveless  sneer  to  see  his  modish  mien, 

He,  down  the  water,  gives  him  this  guid  e’en : — 

AULD  BRIG. 

I doubt  na,  frien’,  ye’ll  think  ye’re  nae  sheep-shank 
Ance  ye  were  streekit  o’er  from  bank  to  bank ! 

But  gin  ye  be  a brig  as  auld  as  me, 

Tho’  faith,  that  day  I doubt  ye’ll  never  see ; 

There’ll  be,  if  that  date  come,  I’ll  wad  a boddle, 
Some  fewer  whigmeleeries  in  your  noddle. 

NEW  BRIG. 

Auld  Vandal,  ye  but  show  your  little  mense, 

Just  much  about  it  wi’  your  scanty  sense ; 

Will  your  poor,  narrow  foot-path  of  a street, 

Where  twa  wheelbarrows  tremble  when  they  meet, 
Your  ruin’d,  formless  bulk  o’  stane  an’  lime, 

Compare  wi’  bonie  Brigs  o’  modern  time  ? 

There’s  men  o’  taste  would  take  the  Duckat  stream,* 


* A noted  ford  just  above  the  Auld  Brig-. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  63 

Tho’  they  should  cast  the  very  sark  and  swim, 

Ere  they  would  grate  their  feelings  wi’  the  view 
O’  sic  an  ugly,  Gothic  hulk  as  you. 

AULD  BRIG. 

Conceited  gowk ! puff’d  up  wi’  windy  pride  . 

This  mony  a year  I’ve  stood  the  flood  an’  tide  ; 

An’  tho’  wi’  crazy  eild  I’m  sair  forfairn, 

I’ll  be  a Brig,  when  ye’re  a shapeless  cairn ! 

As  yet  ye  little  ken  about  the  matter, 

But  twa-three  winters  will  inform  you  better. 

When  heavy,  dark,  continu’d  a’-day  rains, 

Wi’  deep’ning  deluges  o’erflow  the  plains  ; 

When  from  the  hills  where  springs  the  brawling  Coilj 
Or  stately  Lugar’s  mossy  fountains  boil, 

Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland  course, 

Or  haunted  Garpal#  draws  his  feeble  source, 

Arous’d  by  blust’ring  winds  an’  spotting  thowes, 

In  many  a torrent  down  his  sna’broo  rowes, 

While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring  speat, 
Sweeps  dams,  an’  mills,  an’  brigs,  a’  to  the  gate ; 

And  from  Glenbuck,f  down  to  the  Batton-key,^ 

Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen’d,  tumbling  sea ; 

Then  down  ye’ll  hurl  — deil  nor  ye  never  rise ! 

And  dash  the  gumlie  jaups  up  to  the  pouring  ski  es : 
A lesson  sadly  teaching,  to  your  cost, 

That  Architecture’s  noble  art  is  lost ! 

NEW  BRIG. 

Fine  Architecture!  trowth,  I needs  must  say’t  o’t! 
The  L— d be  thankit  that  we’ve  tint  the  gate  o’t ! 

* The  banks  of  Garpal  Water  is  one  of  the  few  places  in  the  West 
of  Scotland,  where  those  fancy-scaring  beings,  known  by  the  name  ol 
Ghaists,  still  continue  pertinaciously  to  inhabit. 

t The  source  of  the  river  Ayr.  $ A small  landing-place  above  the 
large  key. 


64  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Gaunt,  ghastly,  ghaist-alluring  edifices, 

Hanging  with  threat’ning  jut,  like  precipices , 
O’er-arching,  mouldy,  gloom-inspiring  coves, 
Supporting  roofs  fantastic,  stony  groves  ; 

Windows  and  doors,  in  nameless  sculpture  drest, 
With  order,  symmetry,  or  taste,  unblest ; 

Forms  like  some  bedlam-statuary’s  dream, 

The  craz’d  creations  of  misguided  whim; 

Forms  might  be  worshipp’d  on  the  bended  knee, 
And  still  the  second  dread  command  be  free, — 
Their  likeness  is  not  found  on  earth,  in  air,  or  sea. 
Mansions  that  would  disgrace  the  building  taste 
Of  any  mason  reptile,  bird,  or  beast ; 

Fit  only  for  a doited  Monkish  race, 

Or  frosty  maids,  forsworn  the  dear  embrace, 

Or  Cuifs  of  latter  times,  wha  held  the  notion 
That  sullen  gloom  was  sterling,  true  devotion ; 
Fancies  that  our  guid  Burgh  denies  protection, 

And  soon  may  they  expire,  unbless’d  with  resurrection 

AULD  BRIG. 

O ye,  my  dear-remember’d,  ancient  yealings, 

Were  ye  but  here  to  share  my  wounded  feelings! 
Ye  worthy  Proveses,  an’  mony  a Bailie, 

Wha  in  the  paths  of  righteousness  did  toil  ay ; 

Ye  dainty  Deacons,  and  ye  douce  Conveeners, 

To  whom  our  moderns  are  but  causey-cleaners ; 

Ye  godly  Councils  wha  hae  bless’d  this  town  ; 

Ye  godly  Brethren  of  the  sacred  gown, 

Wha  meekly  gae  your  hurdies  to  the  smiters ; 

And  (what  would  now  be  strange)  ye  godly  writers 
A’  ye  douce  folk  I’ve  borne  aboon  the  broo, 

Were  ye  but  here,  what  would  ye  say  or  do  ? 

How  would  your  spirits  groan  in  deep  vexation, 

To  see  each  melancholy  alteration ; 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


65 


And  agonizing,  curse  the  time  and  place 
When  ye  begat  the  base,  degen’rate  race ! 

Nae  langer  Rev’rend  Men,  their  country’s  glory, 

In  plain  braid  Scots  hold  forth  a plain  braid  story; 
Nae  langer  thrifty  Citizens,  an’  douce, 

Meet  owre  a pint,  or  in  the  Council-house ; 

But  staumrel,  corky-headed,  graceless  gentry ; 

The  herryment  and  ruin  of  the  country; 

Men,  three  parts  made  by  tailors  and  by  barbers, 
Wha  waste  your  wheel-hain’d  gear  on  d — d new  Brigs 
and  Harbors  ! 

NEW  BRIG. 

Now  baud  you  there  ! for  faith  ye’ve  said  enough, 
And  muckle  mair  than  ye  can  make  to  through. 

As  for  your  Priesthood,  I shall  say  but  little, 

Corbies  and  Clergy  are  a shot  right  kittle  ; 

But  under  favor  o’  your  langer  beard, 

Abuse  o’  magistrates  might  weel  be  spar’d  ; 

To  liken  them  to  your  auld  warld  squad, 

I must  needs,  say,  comparisons  are  odd. 

In  Ayr,  wag-wits  nae  mair  can  hae  a handle 
To  mouth  “ a citizen,”  a term  o’  scandal : 

Nae  mair  the  Council  waddles  down  the  street, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  ignorant  conceit: 

Men  wha  grew  wise  priggin  owre  hops  an’  raisins, 

Or  gather’d  lib’ral  views  in  Bonds  and  Seisins. 

If  haply  Knowledge,  on  a random  tramp, 

Had  shor’d  them  with  a glimmer  of  his  lamp, 

And  would  to  Common-sense,  for  once  betray’d  them 
Plain,  dull  Stupidity  stept  kindly  in  to  aid  them. 

#*#*######* 

What  farther  clishmaclaver  might  been  said, 

What  bloody  wars,  if  sprites  had  blood  to  shed, 

6* 


66 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


No  man  can  tell ; but  all  before  their  sight, 

A fairy  train  appear’d  in  order  bright: 

Adown  the  glittering  stream  they  featly  danced  ; 
Bright  to  the  moon  their  various  dresses  glanced  ; 
They  footed  o’er  the  wat’ry  glass  so  neat, 

The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet : 

While  arts  of  minstrelsy  among  them  rung, 

And  soul-ennobling  bards  heroic  ditties  sung. 

O,  had  M’Laughlan,#  thairm-inspiring  sage, 

Been  there  to  hear  this  heavenly  band  engage, 

When  through  his  dear  Strathspeys  they  bore  with 
Highland  rage ; 

Or  when  they  struck  old  Scotia’s  melting  airs, 

The  lover’s  raptur’d  joys  or  bleeding  cares  ; 

How  would  his  Highland  lug  been  nobler  fir’d, 

And  ev’n  his  matchless  hand  with  finer  touch  inspir’d 
No  guess  could  tell  what  instrument  appear’d, 

But  all  the  soul  of  Music’s  self  was  heard ; 
Harmonious  concert  rung  in  every  part, 

While  simple  melody  pour’d  moving  on  the  heart. 

The  Genius  of  the  Stream  in  front  appears, 

A venerable  chief  advanc’d  in  years ; 

His  hoary  head  with  water-lilies  crown’d, 

His  manly  leg  with  garter-tangle  bound. 

Next  came  the  loveliest  pair  in  all  the  ring, 

Sweet  female  Beauty  hand  in  hand  with  Spring ; 
Then,  crown’d  with  flow’ry  hay,  came  Rural  Joy 
And  Summer,  with  his  fervid-beaming  eye ; 
All-cheering  Plenty,  with  her  flowing  horn, 

Led  yellow  Autumn,  wreath’d  with  nodding  corn; 
Then  Winter’s  time-bleach’d  locks  did  hoary  show 
By  Hospitality  with  cloudless  brow. 


A well-known  performer  of  Scottish  music  on  the  violin. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  67 

Next  follow’d  Courage  with  his  martial  stride, 

From  where  the  Feal  wild-woody  coverts  hide; 
Benevolence,  with  mild,  benignant  air, 

A female  form,*  came  from  the  tow’rs  of  Stair ; 
Learning  and  Worth  in  equal  measures  trode 
From  simple  Catrine,  their  long-lov’d  abode ; 

Last,  white-rob’d  Peace,  crown’d  with  a hazel  wreath, 
To  rustic  Agriculture  did  bequeath 
The  broken  iron  instruments  of  Death; 

At  sight  of  whom  our  Sprites  forgat  their  kindling  wrath, 



THE  VISION. 

# DUAN  FIRST.f 

The  sun  had  clos’d  the  winter  day, 

The  curlers  quat  their  roaring  play, 

An’  hunger’d  maukin  ta’en  her  way 
To  kail-yards  green, 

While  faithless  snaws  ilk  step  betray 
Where  she  has  been. 

The  thrasher’s  weary  flingin-tree 
The  lee-lang  day  had  tired  me  ; 

And  when  the  day  had  clos’d  his  e’e, 

Far  i’  the  west, 


* The  poet  here  alludes  to  a Mrs.  Stewart,  who  was  then  in  posses- 
sion of  Stair.  She  afterwards  removed  to  Afton-lodge,  on  the  banks  of 
the  Afton,  a stream  which  he  subsequently  celebrated  in  a song  entitled 
“Afton  Water.”  — Ed. 

t Duan,  a term  of  Ossian’s  for  the  different  divisions  of  a digressive 
poem.  See  his  Cath-Loda,  vol.  ii.  of  Macpherson’s  translation. 


68  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Ben  i’  the  spence,  right  pensivelie, 

I gaed  to  rest. 

There,  lanely,  by  the  ingle-cheek, 

I sat  and  ey’d  the  spewing  reek, 

That  fill’d,  wi’  hoast-provoking  smeek, 

The  auld  clay  biggin ; 

An’  heard  the  restless  rattons  squeak 
About  the  riggin. 

All  in  this  mottie,  misty  clime, 

I backward  mus’d  on  wasted  time, 

How  I had  spent  my  youthfu’  prime, 

An’  done  nae-thing, 

But  stringin  blethers  up  in  rhyme, 

For  fools  to  sing. 

Had  I to  guid  advice  but  harkit, 

I might,  by  this,  hae  led  a market, 

Or  strutted  in  a bank  an’  clarkit 
My  cash  account: 

While  here,  half  mad,  half  fed,  half  sarkit, 

Is  a’  th’  amount. 

I started,  mutt’ring,  blockhead!  coof! 

And  heav’d  on  high  my  waukit  loof, 

To  swear  by  a’  yon  starry  roof, 

Or  some  rash  aith, 

That  I henceforth  would  be  a rhyme-proof 
Till  my  last  breath ; — 

When,  click ! the  string  the  sneck  did  draw . 
And,  jee ! the  door  gaed  to  the  wa’; 

An’  by  my  ingle-lowe  I saw, 

Now  bleezin  bright, 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  69 

A tight,  outlandish  Hizzie,  braw, 

Come  full  in  sight. 

Ye  need  nae  doubt,  I held  my  whisht; 

The  infant  aith,  half-form’d,  was  crusht ; 

I glow’rd  as  eerie’s  I’d  been  dusht, 

In  some  wild  glen; 

When  sweet,  like  modest  Worth,  she  blusht, 

And  stepped  ben. 

Green,  slender,  leaf-clad  holly-boughs 

Were  twisted,  gracefu’,  round  her  brows; 

I took  her  for  some  Scottish  muse, 

By  that  same  token ; 

An’  come  to  stop  those  reckless  vows, 

Wou’d  soon  been  broken. 

A “ hair-brain’d,  sentimental  trace,” 

Was  strongly  marked  in  her  face; 

A wildly-witty,  rustic  grace 

Shone  full  upon  her; 

Her  eye,  ev’n  turn’d  on  empty  space, 

Beam’d  keen  with  honor. 

Down  flow’d  her  robe,  a Tartan  sheen, 

Till  half  a leg  was  scrimply  seen ; 

And  such  a leg!  my  bonie  Jean 
Could  only  peer  it ; 

Sae  straught,  sae  taper,  tight  and  clean, 

Nane  else  came  near  it. 

Her  mantle  large,  of  greenish  hue, 

My  gazing  wonder  chiefly  drew ; 

Deep  lights  and  shades,  bold-mingling,  threw 
A lustre  grand ; 


70 


burns’s  poems. 


And  seem’d,  to  my  astonish’d  view, 

A well-known  land! 

Here,  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost; 

There,  mountains  to  the  skies  were  tost; 

Here,  tumbling  billows  mark’d  the  coast 
With  surging  foam ; 

There,  distant  shone  Art’s  lofty  boast, 

The  lordly  dome. 

Here,  Doon  pour’d  down  his  far-fetch’d  floods ; 

There,  well-fed  Irvine  stately  thuds  ; 

Auld  hermit  Ayr  staw  thro’  his  woods, 

On  to  the  shore ; 

And  many  a lesser  torrent  scuds, 

With  seeming  roar. 

Low,  in  a sandy  valley  spread, 

An  ancient  Borough  rear’d  her  head ; 

Still,  as  in  Scottish  story  read, 

She  boasts  a race 

To  ev’ry  nobler  virtue  bred, 

And  polish’d  grace. 

By  stately  tow’r  or  palace  fair, 

Or  ruins  pendant  in  the  air, 

Bold  stems  of  heroes,  here  and  there, 

I could  discern; 

Some  seem’d  to  muse,  some  seem’d  to  dare, 
With  features  stern. 

My  heart  did  glowing  transport  feel, 

To  see  a race  # heroic  wheel, 


* The  Wallaces. 


BURNSES  POEMS.  71 

And  brandish  round  the  deep-dy’d  steel, 

In  sturdy  blows  ; 

While  back-recoiling  seem’d  to  reel 
Their  Southron  foes. 

His  Country’s  Savior,* * * §  mark  him  well; 

Bold  Richardton’s  f heroic  swell ; 

The  chief  on  SarkJ  who  glorious  fell, 

In  high  command ; 

And  he  whom  ruthless  Fates  expel 
His  native  land. 

There,  where  a sceptr’d  Pictish  shade  § 

Stalk’d  round  its  ashes  lowly  laid, 

I mark’d  a martial  race,  portray’d 
In  colors  strong; 

Bold,  soldier-featur’d,  undismay’d, 

They  strode  along. 

Thro’  many  a wild,  romantic  grove,  || 

Near  many  a hermit-fancied  cove, 

(Fit  haunts  for  Friendship  or  for  Love,) 

In  musing  mood, 

An  aged  Judge,  I saw  him  rove, 

Dispensing  good. 


* William  Wallace,  t Adam  Wallace,  of  Richardton,  cousin  to  the 

immortal  preserver  of  Scottish  independence. 

t Wallace,  laird  of  Cragie,  who  was  second  in  command,  under  Doug- 
las, earl  of  Ormond,  at  the  famous  battle  on  the  banks  of  Sark,  fought 
A.  D.  1448.  That  glorious  victory  was  principally  owing  to  the  judicious 
conduct  and  intrepid  valor  of  the  gallant  laird  of  Cragie,  who  died  of  his 
wounds  after  the  action. 

§ Coilus,  king  of  the  Piets,  from  whom  the  district  of  Kyle  is  said  to 
take  its  name,  lies  buried,  as  tradition  says,  near  the  family-seat  of  the 
Montgomeries  of  Coil’s-field,  where  his  burial-place  is  still  shown. 

II  Barskimming,  the  seat  of  the  late  Lord  Justice  Clerk. 


72 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


With  deep-struck,  reverential  awe,* 

The  learned  Sire  and  Son  I saw ; 

To  Nature’s  God  and  Nature’s  law 
They  gave  their  lore ; 
This,  all  its  source  and  end  to  draw, 
That,  to  adore. 

Brydone’s  brave  wardf  I well  could  spy, 
Beneath  old  Scotia’s  smiling  eye, 

Who  call’d  on  Fame,  low  standing  by, 
To  hand  him  on, 

Where  many  a patriot-name  on  high, 
And  hero  shone. 


DUAN  SECOND. 

With  musing-deep,  astonish’d  stare, 

I view’d  the  heav’nly-seeming  Fair; 

A whisp’ring  throb  did  witness  bear, 
Of  kindred  sweet, 

When,  with  an  elder  sister’s  air, 

She  did  me  greet. 

All  hail ! my  own  inspir’d  Bard ! 

In  me  thy  native  muse  regard ! 

Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fate  is  hard! 

Thus  poorly  low! 

I come  to  give  thee  such  reward 
As  we  bestow. 

“Know,  the  great  Genius  of  this  land 
Has  many  a light,  aerial  band, 


* Catrine,  the  seat  of  the  late  doctor,  and  present  professor,  Stewart. 
4 Colonel  Fullarton. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


73 


Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command, 
Harmoniously, 

As  arts  or  arms  they  understand, 

Their  labors  ply. 

“They  Scotia’s  race  among  them  share; 

Some  fire  the  Soldier  on  to  dare; 

Some  rouse  the  Patriot  up  to  bare 
Corruption’s  heart ; 

Some  teach  the  Bard,  a darling  care, 

The  tuneful  art. 

“’Mong  swelling  floods  of  reeking  gore, 

They  ardent,  kindling  spirits  pour; 

Or,  ’mid  the  venal  senate  roar, 

They,  sightless,  stand, 

To  mend  the  honest  patriot-lore, 

And  grace  the  land. 

“And  when  the  Bard,  or  hoary  Sage, 

Charm  or  instruct  the  future  age, 

They  bind  the  wild  poetic  rage 
In  energy ; 

Or  point  the  inconclusive  page 
Full  on  the  eye. 

“Hence  Fullarton,  the  brave  and  young; 

Hence  Dempster’s  zeal-inspir’d  tongue ; 

Hence  sweet,  harmonious  Beattie  sung 

His  ‘ minstrel  lays  ; ’ * 

Or  tore,  with  noble  ardor  stung, 

The  skeptic’s  bays. 

“To  lower  orders  are  assign’d 

The  humbler  ranks  of  human-kind. 

7 


74 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


The  rustic  Bard,  the  lab’ring  hind, 

The  Artisan ; 

All  choose,  as  various  they’re  inclin’d, 

The  various  man. 

“When  yellow  waves  the  heavy  grain, 

The  threat’ning  storm  some  strongly  rein, 
Some  teach  to  meliorate  the  plain, 

With  tillage  skill. 

And  some  instruct  the  shepherd  train, 
Blithe  o’er  the  hill. 

“Some  hint  the  lover’s  harmless  wile; 
Some  grace  the  maiden’s  artless  smile ; 
Some  soothe  the  lab’rer’s  weary  toil, 

For  humble  gains, 

And  make  his  cottage-scenes  beguile 
His  cares  and  pains. 

“ Some,  bounded  to  a district  space, 

Explore  at  large  man’s  infant  race, 

To  mark  the  embryotic  trace 
Of  rustic  bard ; 

And  careful  note  each  op’ning  grace, 

A guide  and  guard. 

“ Of  these  am  I — Coila  my  name  ; 

And  this  district  as  mine  I claim, 

Where  once  the  Campbells,  chiefs  of  fame, 
Held  ruling  pow’r: 

I mark’d  thy  embryo  tuneful  flame, 

Thy  natal  hour. 

“With  future  hope  I oft  would  gaze, 

Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways, 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  75 

Thy  rudely  caroll’d  chiming  phrase, 

In  uncouth  rhymes, 

Fir’d  at  the  simple,  artless  lays 
Of  other  times. 

“ I saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore, 
Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar ; 

Or,  when  the  North  his  fleecy  store 
Drove  thro’  the  sky, 

I saw  grim  Nature’s  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye. 

“ Or,  when  the  deep-green  mantled  earth 
Warm  cherish’d  ev’ry  flow’rets  birth, 

And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 
In  ev’ry  grove, 

I saw  thee  eye  the  gen’ral  mirth 
With  boundless  love. 

“When  ripen’d  fields,  and  azure  skies, 

Call’d  forth  the  reapers’  rustling  noise, 

I saw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys, 

And  lonely  stalk, 

To  vent  thy  bosom’s  swelling  rise 
In  pensive  walk. 

“When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing,  strong, 
Keen-shiv’ring  shot  thy  nerves  along, 

Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

Th’  adored  name, 

I taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song, 

To  soothe  thy  flame. 

“I  saw  thy  pulses  madd’ning  play, 

Wild  send  thee  pleasure’s  devious  way, 


76  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Misled  by  fancy's  meteor  ray, 

By  passion  driv’n ; 

But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  heaven! 

‘I  taught  thy  manners-painting  strains, 
The  loves,  the  ways  of  simple  swains, 
Till  now,  o’er  all  my  wide  domains 
Thy  fame  extends : 

And  some,  the  pride  of  Coila’s  plains, 
Become  thy  friends. 

“Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  I show, 
To  paint  with  Thomson’s  landscape  glow, 
Or  wake  the  bosom-melting  throe 
With  Shenstone’s  art, 

Or  pour,  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow 
Warm  on  the  heart. 

“Yet  all  beneath  the  unrivall’d  rose, 

The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows ; 

Tho’  large  the  forests’s  monarch  throws 
His  army  shade, 

Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows, 
Adown  the  glade. 

“ Then  never  murmur  nor  repine ; 

Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine ; 
And,  trust  me,  not  Potosi’s  mine, 

Nor  king’s  regard, 

Can  give  a bliss  o’ermatching  thine, 

A rustic  bard ! 

“To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one, — 

Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan; 




BURNS’S  POEMS. 


77 


Preserve  the  Dignity  of  Man, 

With  soul  erect ; 

And  trust,  the  Universal  Plan 
Will  all  protect  I 

“ And  wear  thou  this ! ” she  solemn  said, 
And  bound  the  Holly  round  my  head;  — 
The  polish’d  leaves,  and  berries  red, 

Did  rustling  play ; 

And,  like  a passing  thought,  she  fled 
In  light  away. 


THE  COTTER’S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 
Inscribed  to  R.  Esq, 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a disdainful  smile, 

The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  poor.  — Gray 


Mr  lov’d,  my  honor’d,  much  respected  friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 

With  honest  pride,  I scorn  each  selfish  end, 

My  dearest  meed,  a friend’s  esteem  and  praise ; 

To  you  I sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life’s  sequester’d  scene; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways ; 

What  A*##*  in  a cottage  would  have  been; 

Ah  ! tho’  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I ween, 
7* 


78  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

II. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi’  angry  sugh ; 

The  short’ning  winter-day  is  near  a close ; 

The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh ; 

The  black’ning  trains  o’  craws  to  their  repose ; 

The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labor  goes, 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 

Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 

And  weary  o’er  the  moor  his  course  does  homeward  bend* 

iii. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 

Th’  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher  thro’ 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi’  flichter  in  noise  an  glee; 
His  wee  bit  ingle  blinkin  bonily, 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie’s  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  a’  his  weary,  carking  cares  beguile, 

An’  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  and  his  toil. 

IV. 

Belyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin  in, 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun’ ; 

Some  ca’  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 
A cannie  errand  to  a neebor  town  ; 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 

In  youthfu’  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e’e, 

Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a braw  new  gown, 

Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny-fee, 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 


BURiNS’s  POEMS.  79 


Wi’  joy  unfeign’d,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An’  each  for  other’s  welfare  kindly  spiers ; 

The  social  hours,  swift- wing’d,  unnotic’d  fleet; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears  ; 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years  ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 

The  mother,  wi’  her  needle  an’  her  sheers, 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel’s  the  new ; 
The  father  mixes  a’  wi’  admonition  due. 


Their  master’s  an’  their  mistress’s  command, 

The  younkers  a’  are  warned  to  obey ; 

“An’  mind  their  labors  wi’  an  eydent  hand, 

An’  ne’er,  tho’  out  o’  sight,  to  jauk  or  play , 

An’  O ! be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway  ! 

An’  mind  your  duty , duly,  morn  an’  night! 

Lest  in  temptation’s  path  ye  gang  astray, 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might ; 

They  never  sought  in  vain,  that  sought  the  Lord  aright ! ' 

VII. 

But  hark ! a rap  comes  gently  to  the  door ; 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o’  the  same, 

Tells  how  a neebor  lad  came  o’er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame ! 

The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny’s  e’e,  and  flush  her  cheek ; 

With  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name, 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak  ; [rake. 
Weel  pleas’d  the  mother  hears,  it’s  nae  wild,  worthless 


80  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

VIII. 

Wi’  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben; 

A strappan  youth ; he  takes  the  mother’s  eye ; 
Blithe  Jenny  sees  the  visit’s  no  ill  ta’en ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 

The  youngster’s  artless  heart  o’erflows  wi’  joy, 

But  blate  an’  laithfu’,  scarce  can  weel  behave  ; 

The  mother,  wi’  a woman’s  wiles,  can  spy 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu’  an’  sae  grave ; 
Weel  pleas’d  to  think  her  bairn’s  respected  like  the  lave, 

IX. 

O,  happy  love ! where  love  like  this  is  found ; 

O,  heart-felt  raptures  ! bliss  beyond  compare ! 

I’ve  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  — 

If  Heaven  a draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

’Tis  when  a youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 

In  other’s  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  evening 
gale. 

X 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a heart, 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost  to  love  and  truth ! 

That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 

Betray  sweet  Jenny’s  unsuspecting  youth? 

Curse  on  his  perjur’d  arts ! dissembling  smooth ! 

Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil’d  ? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o’er  their  child? 
Then  paints  the  ruin’d  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild 


BURNS  S POEMS.  81 

XI. 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board ! 

The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o’  Scotia’s  food; 

The  soup  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That  ’yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cud : 

The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood, 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain’d  kebbuck  fell, 

An’  aft  he’s  press’d,  an’  aft  he  ca’s  it  good ; 

The  frugal  wifie  garrulous  wjll  tell, 

How  ’thas  a towmond  auld,  sin  ’lint  was  i’  the  bell. 

XII. 

The  cheerfu’  supper  done,  wi’  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  ja  circle  wide ; 

The  sire  turns  o’er,  wi’  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  Ha’-Bible,  ance  his  father’s  pride ; 

His  bonnet  rev’rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearin  thin  an’  bare  ; 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  wales  a portion  with  judicious  care  ; 

And,  “ Let  us  worship  God ! ” he  says  with  solemn  ail 

XIII. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise, 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim  ; 
Perhaps  Dundee’s  wild  warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name; 

Or  noble  Elgin  beats  the  heav’nward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia’s  holy  lays : 

Compar’d  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame ; 

The  tickled  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise, 

Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator’s  praise. 


82  burns’s  poems 

xiv. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high ; 

Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek’s  ungracious  progeny; 

Or,  how  the  Royal  Bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven’s  avenging  ire ; 

Or,  Job’s  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 

Or,  rapt  Isaiah’s  wild  seraphic  fire; 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

xv. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed; 

How  He,  who  bore  in  Heav’n  the  second  name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head ! 

How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a land 

How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a mighty  angel  stand; 

And  heard  great  Bab’lon’s  doom  pronounc’d  by  Heav’n’a 
command. 

XVI. 

Then,  kneeling  down,  to  Heav’n’s  eternal  King, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays! 

Hope  “springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing,”* 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days; 

There,  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 

Together  hymning  their  Creator’s  praise, 


* Pope’s  Windsor  Forest. 


BURXS’s  POEMS.  83 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear ; 

While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere 

XVII. 

Compar’d  with  this,  how  poor  Religion’s  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 

When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 
Devotion’s  ev’ry  grace,  except  the  heart! 

The  Pow’r,  incens’d,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 

But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleas’d,  the  language  of  the  soul, 
And  in  his  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor  enrol ! 

xvm. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev’ral  way; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest; 

The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heav’n  the  warm  request, 

That  He  who  stills  the  raven’s  clam’rous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow’ry  pride, 

Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best, 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide, 

But  chiefly  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

XIX. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia’s  grandeur  springs, 
That  makes  her  lov’d  at  home,  rever’d  abroad ; 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

“An  honest  man’s  the  noblest  work  of  God;” 

And  ceiics  in  fair  virtue’s  heav’nly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind; 


84  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

What  is  a lordling’s  pomp?  — a cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  of  the  wretch  of  human-kind, 

Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refin’d ! 

xx. 

O Scotia ! my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heav’n  is  sent, 
Long  may  the  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content  I 
And,  O ! may  Heav’n  their  simple  lives  prevent 
From  luxury’s  contagion,  weak  and  vile! 

Then,  howe’er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 

And  stand  a wall  of  fire  around  their  much-lov’d  Isle. 

XXI. 

O Thou!  who  pour’d  the  patriotic  tide 
That  stream’d  thro’  Wallace’s  undaunted  heart, 

Who  dar’d  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part; 

(The  patriot’s  God,  peculiarly  thou  art, 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward!) 

O never,  never  Scotia’s  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard, 

In  bright  succession  rise,  her  ornament  and  guard* 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  85 


VERSES. 

WRITTEN  IN  FRIAR’s-CARSE  HERMITAGE,  ON  NITH-SIDE, 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, 

Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed, 

Be  thou  deck’d  in-silken  stole, 

Grave  these  counsels  on  thy  soul  — 

Life  is  but  a day  at  most, 

Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost; 

Hope  not  sunshine  ev’ry  hour, 

Fear  not  clouds  will  always  low’r. 

As  youth  and  love,  with  sprightly  dance, 
Beneath  thy  morning  star  advance, 

Pleasure  with  her  siren  air 
May  delude  the  thoughtless  pair; 

Let  prudence  bless  enjoyment’s  cup, 

Then  raptur’d  sip,  and  sip  it  up. 

As  thy  day  grows  warm  and  high, 

Life’s  meridian  flaming  nigh, 

Dost  thou  spurn  the  humble  vale  ? 

Life’s  proud  summits  wouldst  thou  scale  ? 

Check  thy  climbing  step,  elate, 

Evils  lurk  in  felon  wait; 

Dangers,  eagle-pinion’d,  bold, 

Soar  around  each  cliffy  hold, 

While  cheerful  peace,  with  linnet  song, 

Chants  the  lowly  dells  among. 


86  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

As  the  shades  of  evening  close, 

Beck’ning  thee  to  long  repose ; 

As  life  itself  becomes  disease, 

Seek  the  chimney-neuk  of  ease ; 

There  ruminate  with  sober  thought, 

On  all  thou’st  seen,  and  heard,  and  wrought; 
And  teach  the  sportive  younkers  round, 

Laws  of  experience,  sage  and  sound. 

Say,  Man’s  true,  genuine  estimate, 

The  grand  criterion  of  his  fate, 

Is  not,  Art  thou  high  or  ltTW  ? 

Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow  ? 

Did  many  talents  gild  thy  span  P 
Or  frugal  nature  grudge  thee  one  ? 

Tell  them,  and  press  it  on  their  mind, 

As  thou  thyself  must  shortly  find, 

The  smile  or  frown  of  awful  Heav’n 
To  virtue  or  to  vice  is  giv’n. 

Say,  to  be  just,  and  kind,  and  wise, 

There  solid  self-enjoyment  lies  ; 

That  foolish,  selfish,  faithless  ways, 

Lead  to  the  wretched,  vile,  and  base. 

Thus  resign’d  and  quiet,  creep 
To  the  bed  of  lasting  sleep ; 

Sleep,  whence  thou  shalt  ne’er  ^wake 
Night  where  dawn  shall  never  break, 

Till  future  life,  future  no  more, 

To  light  and  ^oy  the  good  restore, 

To  light  and  joy  unknown  before ! 

Stranger,  go ! Heaven  be  thy  guide 1 
Quod  the  Beadsman  of  Nith-side 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  87 


A PRAYER, 

UNDER  THE  PRESSURE  OF  VIOLENT  ANGUISH. 

O thou  great  Being!  what  thou  art 
Surpasses  me  to  know; 

Yet  sure  I am,  that  known  to  Thee 
Are  all  thy  works  below. 

Thy  creature  here  before  Thee  stands, 

All  wretched  and  distrest ; 

Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 
Obey  thy  high  behest. 

Sure  Thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 
From  cruelty  or  wrath! 

O,  free  my  weary  eyes  from  tears, 

Or,  close  them  fast  in  death! 

But  if  I must  afflicted  be, 

To  suit  some  wise  design; 

Then  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolves 
To  bear  and  not  repine ! 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


A PRAYER, 

IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

O thou,  unknown,  Almighty  Cause 
Of  all  my  hope  and  fear! 

In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour, 
Perhaps  I must  appear! 

If  I have  wander’d  in  those  paths 
Of  life  I ought  to  shun;  — 

As  something,  loudly  in  my  breast, 
Remonstrates  I have  done ; — 

Thou  know’st  that  Thou  hast  formed  me 
With  passions  wild  and  strong ; 

And  list’ning  to  their  witching  voice 
Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

Where  human  weakness  has  come  short, 
Or  frailty  stept  aside, 

Ho  Thou,  All  Good ! — for  such  Thou  art, 
In  shades  of  darkness  hide. 

Where  with  intention  I have  err’d, 

No  other  plea  I have, 

But,  Thou  art  good ! and  goodness  still 
Delighteth  to  forgive  1 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  89 


STANZAS, 

ON  THE  SAME  OCCASION. 

I. 

Why  am  I loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 

Have  I so  found  it  full  of  pleasing  charms? 
Some  drops  of  joy  with  draughts  of  ill  between ; 

Some  gleams  of  sunshine  ’mid  renewing  storms. 
Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms  ? 

Or  death’s  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode  ? 

For  guilt,  for  guilt ! my  terrors  are  in  arms ! 

I tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 

And  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin-avenging  rod. 

ii. 

Fain  would  I say,  “ Forgive  my  foul  offence ! ” 
Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey : 

But,  should  my  Author  health  again  dispense, 
Again  I might  desert  fair  virtue’s  way : 

Again  in  folly’s  path  might  go  astray; 

Again  exalt  the  brute,  and  sink  the  man ; 

Then  how  should  I for  heav’nly  mercy  pray, 

Who  act  so  counter  heav’nly  mercy’s  plan? 

Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourn’d,  yet  to  temptation  ran  ? 

hi. 

O Thou,  great  Governor  of  all  below, 

If  I may  dare  a lifted  eye  to  Thee, 

Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to  blow, 

Or  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea; 

8* 


90  BURNSES  POEMS. 

With  that  controlling  pow’r  assist  ev’n  me, 

Those  headlong,  furious  passions  to  confine; 

For  all  unfit  I feel  my  pow’rs  to  be, 

To  rule  their  torrent  in  th’  allowed  line; 

O,  aid  me  with  thy  help,  Omnipotence  divine! 

+ 

VERSES, 

LEFT  BY  THE  AUTHOR  AT  A REVEREND  FRIEND’S  HOUSE 
IN  THE  ROOM  WHERE  HE  SLEPT. 

I. 

O thou,  dread  Pow’r,  who  reign’st  above ; 

I know  thou  wilt  me  hear, 

When,  for  this  scene  of  peace  and  love, 

I make  my  pray’r  sincere. 

ii. 

The  hoary  sire,  the  mortal  stroke, 

Long,  long,  be  pleas’d  to  spare ! 

To  bless  his  little  filial  flock, 

And  show  what  good  men  are. 

hi. 

She,  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 
With  tender  hopes  and  fears, 

O,  bless  her  with  a mother’s  joys, 

But  spare  a mother’s  tears ! 

IV. 

Their  hope,  their  stay,  their  darling  youth, 

In  manhood’s  dawning  blush  ; 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  91 

Bless  him,  thou  God  of  love  and  truth, 

Up  to  a parent’s  wish ! 

v. 

The  beauteous,  seraph  sister-band, 

With  earnest  tears  I pray, 

Thou  know’st  the  snares  on  ev’ry  hand,  — 
Guide  Thou  their  steps  alway ! 

VI. 

When  soon  or  late  they  reach  that  coast, 

O’er  life’s  rough  ocean  driv’n, 

May  they  rejoice,  no  wand’rer  lost, 

A family  in  heav’n ! 


» 

A GRACE  BEFORE  DINNER. 

O thou,  who  kindly  dost  provide 
For  ev’ry  creature’s  want ! 

We  bless  thee,  God  of  Nature  wide 
For  all  thy  goodness  lent: 

And  if  it  please  thee,  heav’nly  Guide, 
May  never  worse  be  sent ; 

But  whether  granted  or  denied, 

Lord,  bless  us  with  content! 

Amen 


92  BURNS  S POEMS. 


THE  FIRST  PSALM. 

The  man  in  life,  wherever  plac’d, 

Hath  happiness  in  store, 

Who  walks  not  in  the  wicked’s  way, 
Nor  learns  their  guilty  lore ! 

Nor  from  the  seat  of  scornful  pride 
Casts  forth  his  eyes  abroad, 

But  with  humility  and  awe 
Still  walks  before  his  God. 

That  man  shall  flourish  like  the  trees 
Which  by  the  streamlets  grow ; 

The  fruitful  top  is  spread  on  high, 

And  firm  the  root  below. 

But  he  whose  blossom  buds  in  guilt, 
Shall  to  the  ground  be  cast, 

And,  like  the  rootless  stubble,  tost 
Before  the  sweeping  blast. 

For  why? — That  God,  the  good  adore, 
Hath  giv’n  them  peace  and  rest, 

But  hath  decreed  that  wicked  men 
Shall  ne’er  be  truly  blest. 


BURXS’s  POEMS.  93 


THE  FIRST  SIX  VERSES  OF  THE  NINETIETH 
PSALM. 

O thou,  the  first,  the  greatest  friend 
Of  all  the  human  race ! 

Whose  strong  right  hand  has  ever  been 
Their  stay  and  dwelling  place! 

Before  the  mountains  heav’d  their  heads 
Beneath  thy  forming  hand, 

Before  this  pond’rous  globe  itself 
Arose  at  thy  command  ; 

That  Pow’r  which  rais’d,  and  still  upholds, 
This  universal  frame, 

From  countless,  unbeginning  time, 

Was  ever  still  the  same. 

Those  mighty  periods  of  years 
Which  seem  to  us  so  vast, 

Appear  no  more  before  thy  sight 
Than  yesterday  that’s  past. 

Thou  giv’st  the  word  — thy  creature,  man, 

Is  to  existence  brought; 

Again  thou  say’st,  “Ye  sons  of  men, 

Return  ye  into  nought!” 

« 

Thou  layest  them,  with  all  their  cares, 

In  everlasting  sleep ; 

As  with  a flood  Thou  tak’st  them  off 
With  overwhelming  sweep. 


94 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


They  flourish  like  the  morning  flow’r, 
In  beauty’s  pride  array’d  ; 

But  long  ere  night,  cut  down,  it  lies 
All  wither’d  and  decay’d. 

— — 

EPISTLE  TO  A YOUNG  FRIEND. 


i. 

I lang  hae  thought,  my  youthfu’  friend, 
A something  to  have  sent  you, 

Tho’  it  should  serve  no  other  end 
Than  just  a kind  memento ; 

But  how  the  subject-theme  may  gang, 
Let  time  and  chance  determine ; 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a sang, 

Perhaps  turn  out  a sermon. 


ii. 

Ye’ll  try  the  world  soon,  my  lad, 

And  Andrew,  dear,  believe  me, 

Ye’ll  find  mankind  an  unco  squad, 

And  muckle  they  may  grieve  ye ! 

For  care  and  trouble  set  your  thought, 
Ev’n  when  your  end’s  attained; 

And  a’  your  views  may  come  to  nought, 
When  ev’ry  nerve  is  strained. 

• hi. 

I’ll  no  say  men  are  villains  a’; 

The  real,  harden’d,  wicked, 

Wha  hae  nae  check  but  human  law 
Are  to  a few  restricked  — 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 

95 

But  och ! mankind  are  unco  weak, 
An’  little  to  be  trusted ; 

If  self  the  wav’ring  balance  shake, 
It’s  rareiy  right  adjusted ! 

IV. 

Yet  they  wha  fa’  in  fortune’s  strife, 
Their  fate  we  should  na  censure, 
For  still  th’  important  end  of  life 
They  equally  may  answer; 

A man  may  hae  an  honest  heart, 
Tho’  poortith  hourly  stare  him ; 

A man  may  tak  a neebor’s  part, 

Yet  hae  na  cash  to  spare  him. 

V. 

Ay  free,  aff  han’,  your  story  tell, 
When  wi’  a bosom  crony ; # 

But  still  keep  something  to  yoursel, 
Ye’ll  scarcely  tell  to  ony. 

Conceal  yoursel  as  weel’s  ye  can, 
Frae  critical  dissection ; 

But  keek  thro’  ev’ry  other  man, 

Wi’  sharpen’d,  sly  inspection. 

• 

VI. 

The  sacred  lowe  o’  weel-plac’d  love, 
Luxuriantly  indulge  it; 

But  never  tempt  th’  illicit  rove, 

Tho’  naething  should  divulge  it; 

I waive  the  quantum  o’  the  sin, 

The  hazard  o’  concealing, 

But  och ! it  hardens  a’  within, 

And  petrifies  the  feeling! 

96  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

VII. 

To  catch  dame  Fortune’s  golden  smile, 
Assiduous  wait  upon  her; 

And  gather  gear  by  ev’ry  wile 
That’s  justified  by  honor  — 

Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a hedge, 

Nor  for  a train-attendant, 

But  for  the  glorious  privilege 
Of  being  independent ! 

VIII. 

The  fear  o’  hell’s  a hangman’s  whip, 
To  haud  the  wretch  in  order, — 

But  where  ye  feel  your  honor  grip, 

Let  that  a’  be  your  border  ; 

It’s  slightest  touches,  instant  pause,— 
Debar  a’  side  pretences; 

And  resolutely  keep  its  laws, 

Uncaring  consequences. 

IX. 

The  great  Creator  to  revere, 

Must  sure  become  the  creature  ; 

But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear, 
And  ev’n  the  rigid  feature ; 

Yet  ne’er  with  wits  profane  to  range, 
Be  complaisance  extended; 

An  atheist’s  laugh’s  a poor  exchange 
For  Deity  offended ! 

x. 

When  ranting  round  in  pleasure’s  ring, 
Religion  may  be  blinded ; 

Or,  if  she  gie  a random  sing, 

It  may  be  little  minded ; 


j 

burns’s  POEMS.  97 

But  when  on  life  we’re  tempest  driv’n, 

A conscience  but  a canker  — 

A correspondence  fix’d  wi’  Heav’n 
Is  sure  a nobler  anchor! 

XI. 

Adieu,  dear,  amiable  youth! 

Your  heart  can  ne’er  be  wanting; 

May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth, 

Erect  your  brow  undaunting! 

In  ploughman  phrase,  “ Gad  send  you  speed,” 

Still  daily  to  grow  wiser; 

And  may  you  better  reck  the  rede 
Than  ever  did  th’  adviser  l 
May , 1786*. 

9 


BOOK  II. 

PATHETIC,  ELEGIAC,  AND  DESCRIPTIVE. 
MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 

A DIRGE. 


When  chill  November’s  surly  blast 
Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 

One  ev’ning,  as  I wander’d  forth 
Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 

I spy’d  a man,  whose  aged  step 
Seem’d  weary,  worn  with  care ; 

His  face  was  furrow’d  o’er  with  years, 
And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

ii. 

Young  stranger,  whither  wand’rest  thou? 

(Began  the  rev’rend  sage ;) 

Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain, 
Or  youthful  pleasure’s  rage  ? 

Or  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes, 
Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 
The  miseries  of  man!  4 


BURNS'S  POEMS.  99 

in. 

The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 
Out-spreading  far  and  wide, 

Where  hundreds  labor  to  support 
A haughty  lordling’s  pride; 

I’ve  seen  yon  weary  winter  sun 
Twice  forty  times  return; 

And  ev’ry  time  has  added  proofs, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

iv. 

O man ! while  in  thy  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time  ! 

Misspending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime ! 

Alternate  follies  take  the  sway; 

Licentious  passions  burn ; 

Which  tenfold  force  gives  Nature’s  law, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

v. 

Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood’s  active  might; 

Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  in  his  right; 

But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life, 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn, 

Then  age  and  want,  oh ! ill-match’d  pair ! 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

VI. 

A few  seem  favorites  of  Fate, 

In  Pleasure’s  lap  carest; 

Yet,  think  not  ail  the  rich  and  great 
Are  likewise  truly  blest. 


100  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

But  oh ! what  crowds,  in  ev’ry  land, 
Are  wretched  and  forlorn; 

Thro’  weary  life  this  lesson  learn, 
That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

VII. 

Many  and  sharp  the  num’rous  ills 
Inwoven  with  our  frame ! 

More  pointed  still  we  jnake  ourselves 
Regret,  remorse,  and  shame ! 

And  man,  whose  heav’n-erected  face 
The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 

Man’s  inhumanity  to  man 
Makes  countless  thousands  mourn* 

VIII. 

See  yonder  poor,  o’erlabor’d  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 

Who  begs  a brother  of  the  earth 
To  give  him  leave  to  toil ! 

And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 
The  poor  petition  spurn, 

Unmindful,  tho’  a weeping  wife 
And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

IX. 

If  I’m  design’d  yon  lordling’s  slave, 
By  Nature’s  law  design’d ; 

Why  was  an  independent  wish 
E’er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 

If  not,  why  am  I subject  to 
His  cruelty,  or  scorn  ? 

Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  pow’r 
To  make  his  fellow  mourn? 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  101 

x. 

Yet,  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast; 

This  partial  view  of  human  kind 
Is  surely  not  the  last! 

The  poor,  oppressed,  honest,  man, 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born, 

Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 
To  comfort  those  that  mourn. 

XI. 

O Death ! the  poor  man’s  dearest  friend ! 

The  kindest  and  the  best ! 

Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 
Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 

The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow, 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn; 

But  oh,  — a blest  relief  to  those 
That  weary-laden  mourn! 


A WINTER  NIGHT. 

Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe’er  you  are, 

That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm! 

How  shall  your  houseless  he«ads,  and  unfed  sides, 
Your  loop’d  and  window’d  raggedness  defend  you 
From  seasons  such  as  these?  — Shakspeare. 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure, 
Sharp  shivers  thro’  the  leafless  bow’r; 
When  Phoebus  gies  a short-liv’d  glow’r, 
Far  south  the  lift, 

9# 


102  BCJRNS’s  POEMS. 

Dim-dark’ning  thro’  the  flaky  show’r. 

Or  whirlin  drift! 

Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rock’d, 

Poor  Labor  sweet  in  sleep  was  lock’d, 

While  burns,  wi’  snawy  wreaths  up-chock’d, 
Wild-eddying  swirl, 

Or  thro’  the  mining  outlet  bock’d, 

Down  headlong  hurl. 

List’ning,  the  doors  an’  winnocks  rattle, 

I thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 

Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 
O’  winter  war, 

And  thro’  the  drift,  deep-lairing  sprattle, 
Beneath  a scar. 

Ilk  happing  bird,  wee  helpless  thing, 

That  in  the  merry  months  o’  spring, 

Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o’  thee? 

Where  wilt  thou  cow’r  thy  chitt’ring  wing, 
An’  close  thy  e’e  ? 

Ev’n  you  on  murd’ring  errands  toil’.d, 

Lone,  from  your  savage  homes  exil’d, 

The  blood-stain’d  roost,  and  sheep-cote  spoil’d, 
My  heart  forgets, 

While  pitiless  the  tempest  wild 

Sore  on  you  beats. 

Now  Phoebe,  in  her  midnight  reign, 
Dark-muffled,  view’d  the  dreary  plain ; 

Still  crowding  thoughts,  a pensive  train, 

Rose  in  my  soul, 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  103 

When  on  my  ear  this  plaintive  strain, 

Slow,  solemn,  stole:  — 

“Blow,  blow,  ye  winds,  with  heavier  gust! 

And  freeze,  thou  bitter-biting  frost! 

Descend,  ye  chilly,  smothering  snows! 

Not  all  your  rage,  as  now  united,  shows 
More  hard  unkindness,  unrelenting, 

Vengeful  malice,  unrepenting, 

Than  heav’n-illumin’d  man  on  brother  man  bestows! 

“See  stern  Oppression’s  iron  grip, 

Or  mad  Ambition’s  gory  hand, 

Sending,  like  blood-hounds  from  the  slip, 

Wo,  want,  and  murder,  o’er  a land ! 

“ Ev’n  in  the  peaceful  rural  vale, 

Truth,  weeping,  tells  the  mournful  tale, 

How  pamper’d  luxury,  flatt’ry  by  her  side, 

The  parasite  empoisoning  her  ear, 

With  all  the  servile  wretches,  in  the  rear, 

Look  o’er  proud  property  extended  wide, 

And  eyes  the  simple  rustic  hind, 

Whose  toil  upholds  the  glitt’ring  show, 

A creature  of  another  kind, 

Some  coarser  substance,  unrefin’d, 

Plac’d  for  her  lordly  use  thus  far,  thus  vile,  below, 

“Where,  where  is  love’s  fond,  tender  throe, 

With  lordly  Honor’s  lofty  brow, 

The  pow’rs  you  proudly  own? 

Is  there,  beneath  love’s  noble  name, 

Can  harbor,  dark,  the  selfish  aim, 

To  bless  himself  alone? 


104  BURNs’s  POEMS. 

“Mark  maiden  innocence,  a prey 
To  love-pretending  snares, 

This  boasted  honor  turns  away, 

Shunning  soft  pity’s  rising  sway, 

Regardless  of  the  tears,  and  unavailing  prayers! 
Perhaps,  this  hour,  in  mis’ry’s  squalid  nest, 

She  strains  your  infant  to  her  joyless  breast, 
And  with  a mother’s  fears  shrieks  at  the  rocking  blast 

“ O ye ! who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down, 

Feel  not  a want  but  what  yourselves  create, 

Think  for  a moment  on  his  wretched  fate, 

Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown! 

Ill  satisfied  keen  nature’s  clam’rous  call, 

Stretch’d  on  his  straw,  he  lays  himself  to  sleep, 
While  thro’  the  ragged  roof  and  chinky  wall, 

Chill  o’er  his  slumbers  piles  the  drifty  heap ! 
Think  on  the  dungeon’s  grim  confine, 

Where  guilt  and  poor  misfortune  pine! 

Guilt,  erring  man,  relenting  view ! 

But  shall  thy  legal  rage  pursue 
The  wretch  already  crushed  low 
By  cruel  fortune’s  undeserved  blow ! 
Affliction’s  son’s  are  brothers  in  distress, 

A brother  to  relieve,  how  exquisite  the  bliss ! ” 

I heard  nae  mair,  for  Chanticleer 
Shook  off  the  pouthery  snaw, 

And  hail’d  the  morning  with  a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing  craw. 

But  deep  this  truth  impress’d  my  mind  — 
Thro’  all  his  works  abroad, 

The  heart,  benevolent  and  kind, 

The  most  resembles  God. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


105 


WINTER, 

A DIRGE. 


I. 

The  wintry  west  extends  his  blast, 

And  hail  and  rain  does  blaw; 

Or,  the  stormy  north  sends  driving  forth 
The  blinding  sleet  and  snaw : 

While  tumbling  brown,  the  burn  comes  down, 
And  roars  frae  bank  to  brae ; 

And  bird  and  beast  in  covert  rest, 

And  pass  the  heartless  day. 


ii. 

“The  sweeping  blast,  the  sky  o’ercast,”* 
The  joyless  winter  day, 

Let  others  fear,  to  me  more  dear 
Than  all  the  pride  of  May ! 

The  tempest’s  howl,  it  soothes  my  soul, 

My  griefs  it  seems  to  join, 

The  leafless  trees  my  fancy  please, 

Their  fate  resembles  mine ! 

hi. 

Thou  Pow’r  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 
These  woes  of  mine  fulfil, 

Here,  firm,  I rest  — they  must  be  best, 
Because  they  are  thy  will ! 


* Dr.  Young-. 


106  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Then  all  I want,  (O,  do  thou  grant 
This  one  request  of  mine!) 

Since  to  enjoy  thou  dost  deny, 
Assist  me  to  resign. 


DESPONDENCY. 

AN  ODE. 

I. 

Oppress’d  with  grief,  oppress’d  with  care, 
A burden  more  than  I can  bear, 

I sit  me  down  and  sigh; 

O life,  thou  art  a galling  load, 

A long,  a rough,  a weary  road, 

To  wretches  such  as  I ! 

Dim,  backward  as  I cast  my  view, 

What  sick’ning  scenes  appear! 

What  sorrows  yet  may  pierce  me  thro’, 
Too  justly  I may  fear! 

Still  caring,  despairing, 

Must  be  my  bitter  doom; 

My  woes  here  shall  close  ne’er, 

But  with  the  closing  tomb ! 

ii. 

Happy,  ye  sons  of  busy  life, 

Who,  equal  to  the  bustling  strife, 

No  other  view  regard ! 

Ev’n  when  the  wished  end’s  denied, 

Yet  while  the  busy  means  are  ply’d. 

They  bring  their  own  reward: 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  107 

Whilst  I,  a hope-abandon’d  wight, 

Unfitted  with  an  aim, 

Meet  ev’ry  sad  returning  night, 

And  joyless  morn,  the  same. 

You,  bustling  and  justling, 

Forget  each  grief  and  pain; 

I,  listless,  yet  restless, 

Find  ev’ry  prospect  vain. 

hi. 

How  blest  the  Solitary’s  lot, 

Who,  all-forgetting,  all-forgot, 

Within  his  humble  cell, 

The  cavern  wild  with  tangling  roots, 

Sits  o’er  his  newly-gather’d  fruits, 

Beside  his  crystal  well ! 

Or,  haply,  to  his  evening  thought, 

By  unfrequented  stream, 

The  ways  of  men  are  distant  brought, 

A faint  collected  dream; 

While  praising,  and  raising 

His  thoughts  to  Heav’n  on  high, 

As  wand’ring,  meand’ring, 

He  views  the  solemn  sky. 

iv. 

Then  I,  no  lonely  hermit  plac’d 
Where  never  human  footstep  trac’d, 

Less  fit  to  play  the  part; 

The  lucky  moment  to  improve, 

And  just  to  stop,  and  just  to  move, 

With  self-respecting  art: 

But  ah ! those  pleasures,  loves,  and  joys, 
Which  I too  keenly  taste, 

The  Solitary  can  despise, 


108 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


Can  want,  and  yet  be  blest ! 

He  needs  not,  he  heeds  not, 
Or  human  love  or  hate, 
Whilst  I here,  must  cry  here, 
At  perfidy  ingrate ! 


v. 

Oh!  enviable,  early  days, 

When  dancing,  thoughtless  pleasure’s  maze, 
To  care,  to  guilt  unknown! 

How  ill  exchang’d  for  riper  times, 

To  feel  the  follies,  or  the  crimes, 

Of  others,  or  my  own ! 

Ye  tiny  elves  that  guiltless  sport, 

Like  linnets  in  the  bush, 

Ye  little  know  the  ills  ye  court, 

When  manhood  is  your  wish ! 

The  losses,  the  crosses, 

That  active  man  engage ! 

The  fears  all,  the  tears  all, 

Of  dim  declining  age! 


4- 


TO  RUIN. 


i. 

All  hail!  inexorable  lord! 

At  whose  destruction-breathing  word 
The  mightiest  empires  fall! 

Thy  cruel,  wo-delighted  train, 

The  ministers  of  grief  and  pain, 

A sullen  welcome,  all! 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  109 

With  stern,  resolv’d,  despairing  eye, 

I see  each  aimed  dart; 

For  one  has  cut  my  dearest  tie, 

And  quivers  in  my  heart. 

Then  low’ring  and  pouring, 

The  storm  no  more  I dread ; 

Tho’  thick’ning  and  black’ning 
Round  my  devoted  head. 

ii. 

And  thou,  grim  pow’r,  by  life  abhorr’d. 

While  life  a pleasure  can  afford, 

Oh ! hear  a wretch’s  pray’r ! 

No  more  I shrink  appall’d,  afraid, 

I court,  I beg  thy  friendly  aid, 

To  close  this  scene  of  care ! 

When  shall  my  soul,  in  silent  peace, 

Resign  life’s  joyless  day ; 

My  weary  heart  its  throbbings  cease, 

Cold  mould’ring  in  the  clay? 

No  fear  more,  no  tear  more, 

To  strain  my  lifeless  face ; 

Enclasped  and  grasped 
Within  thy  cold  embrace ! 


LAMENT  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS, 

ON  THE  APPROACH  OF  SPRING. 

Now  Nature  hangs  her  mantle  green 
On  ev’ry  blooming  tree, 

And  spreads  her  sheets  o’  daisies  white 
Out  o’er  the  grassy  lea; 

10 


110  EURNS’s  POEMS. 

Now  Phoebus  cheers  the  crystal  streams, 
And  glads  the  azure  skies; 

But  nought  can  glad  the  weary  wight 
That  fast  in  durance  lies. 

Now  lav’rocks  wake  the  merry  morn 
Aloft  on  dewy  wing; 

The  merle,  in  his  noontide  bow’r, 

Makes  woodland  echoes  ring; 

The  mavis  wild,  wi’  many  a note, 

Sings  drowsy  day  to  rest; 

In  love  and  freedom  they  rejoice, 

Wi’  care  nor  thrall  opprest. 

Now  blooms  the  lily  by  the  bank, 

The  primrose  down  the  brae, 

The  hawthorn’s  budding  in  the  glen, 

And  milk-white  is  the  slae : 

The  meanest  hind  in  fair  Scotland 
May  rove  the  sweets  amang; 

But  I,  the  Queen  of  a’  Scotland, 

Maun  lie  in  prison  strang. 

I was  the  Queen  o’  bonie  France, 

Where  happy  I hae  been ; 

Fu’  lightly  raise  I in  the  morn, 

As  blithe  lay  down  at  e’en; 

And  I’m  the  sov’reign  of  Scotland, 

And  monie  a traitor  there ; 

Yet  here  I lie  in  foreign  bands, 

And  never-ending  care. 

But  as  for  thee,  thou  false  woman, 

My  sister  and  my  fae, 

Grim  Vengeance,  yet,  shall  whet  a sword 


BURNs’s  POEMS.  Ill 

That  thro’  thy  soul  shall  gae ; 

The  weeping  blood  in  woman’s  breast 
Was  never  known  to  thee ; 

Nor  th’  balm  that  draps  on  wounds  of  wo 
Frae  woman’s  pitying  e’e. 

My  son ! my  son ! may  kinder  stars 
Upon  thy  fortune  shine ; 

And  may  those  pleasures  gild  thy  reign, 

That  ne’er  wad  blink  on  mine  I 
God  keep  thee  frae  thy  mother’s  faes, 

Or  turn  their  hearts  to  thee  ; 

And  where  thou  meet’st  thy  mother’s  friend, 
Remember  him  for  me ! 

O ! soon,  to  me,  may  summer-suns 
Nae  mair  light  up  the  morn! 

Nae  mair,  to  me,  the  autumn  winds 
Wave  o’er  the  yellow  corn! 

And,  in  the  narrow  house  o’  death, 

Let  winter  round  me  rave ! 

And  the  next  flowers  that  deck  the  spring, 
Bloom  on  my  peaceful  grave ! 


112  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


THE  LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED  BY  THE  UNFORTUNATE  ISSUE  OF  A FRIEND’S 
AMOUR. 

Alas!  how  oft  does  Goodness  wound  itself, 

And  sweet  Affection  Drove  the  spring  of  wo. 


0 thou  pale  orb,  that  silent  shines, 

While  care-untroubled  mortals  sleep ! 

Thou  seest  a wretch  that  inly  pines, 

And  wanders  here  to  wail  and  weep. 

With  wo  I nightly  vigils  keep, 

Beneath  thy  wan,  unwarming  beam ; 

And  mourn,  in  lamentation  deep, 

How  life  and  love  are  all  a dream. 

ii. 

1 joyless  view  thy  rays  adorn 
The  faintly-marked  distant  hill ; 

I joyless  view  thy  trembling  horn, 
Reflected  in  the  gurgling  rill : 

My  fondly-flutt’ring  heart,  be  still! 

Thou  busy  pow’r,  Remembrance,  cease! 

Ah ! must  the  agonizing  thrill 
For  ever  bar  returning  peace ! 

hi. 

No  idly-feign’d  poetic  pains, 

My  sad  love-lorn  lamentings  claim ; 

No  shepherd’s  pipe  — Arcadian  strains 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  113 

No  fabled  tortures,  quaint  and  tame, 

The  plighted  faith,  the  mutual  flame, 

The  oft-attested  Pow’rs  above; 

The  promis’d  Father’s  tender  name ; 

These  were  the  pledges  of  my  love! 

IV. 

Encircled  in  her  clasping  arms, 

How  have  the  raptur’d  moments  flown! 

How  have  I wish’d  for  fortune’s  charms, 

For  her  dear  sake,  and  hers  alone ! 

And  must  I think  it!  is  she  gone, 

My  secret  heart’s  exulting  boast  ? 

And  does  she  heedless  hear  my  groan  ? 

And  is  she  ever,  ever  lost? 

v. 

Oh ! can  she  bear  so  base  a heart, 

So  lost  to  honor,  lost  to  truth, 

As  from  the  fondest  lover  part, 

The  plighted  husband  of  her  youth  ? 

Alas ! life’s  path  may  be  unsmooth ! 

Her  way  may  lie  thro’  rough  distress; 

Then,  who  her  pangs  and  pains  will  soothe, 

Her  sorrows  share,  and  make  them  less*'* 

VI. 

Ye  winged  hours  that  o’er  us  past, 

Enraptur’d  more,  the  more  enjoy’d, 

Your  dear  remembrance  in  my  breast, 

My  fondly-treasur’d  thoughts  employ’d. 

That  breast,  how  dreary  now,  and  void, 

For  her  too  scanty  once  of  room! 

Ev’n  ev’ry  ray  of  hope  destroy’d, 

And  not  a wish  to  gild  the  gloom 
10* 


114  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

* VII. 

The  morn  that  warns  th’  approaching  day, 
Awakes  me  up  to  toil  and  wo; 

I see  the  hours,  in  long  array, 

That  I must  suffer,  ling’ring  slow: 

Full  many  a pang,  and  many  a throe, 

Keen  recollection’s  direful  train, 

Must  wring  my  soul,  ere  Phoebus,  low, 

Shall  kiss  the  distant  western  main. 

VIII. 

And  when  my  nightly  couch  I try, 

Sore  harass’d  out  with  care  and  grief, 

My  toil-beat  nerves,  and  tear-worn  eye, 

Keep  watchings  with  the  nightly  thief ; 

Or  if  I slumber,  Fancy,  chief, 

Reigns  haggard-wild,  in  sore  affright; 

Ev’n  day,  all-bitter,  brings  relief, 

From  such  a horror-breathing  night. 

IX. 

O ! thou  bright  queen,  who  o’er  th’  expanse 
Now  highest  reign’st,  with  boundless  sway  * 

Oft  has  thy  silent-marking  glance 
Observ’d  us,  fondly-wand’ring,  stray ! 

The  time,  unheeded,  sped  away, 

While  love’s  luxurious  pulse  beat  high, 

Beneath  thy  silver-gleaming  ray, 

To  mark  the  mutual  kindling  eye. 

x. 

Oh!  scenes  in  strong  remembrance  set! 
Scenes  never,  never  to  return ! 

Scenes,  if  in  stupor  I forget, 

Again  I feel,  again  I burn ; 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  115 

From  ev’ry  joy  and  pleasure  torn, 

Life’s  weary  vale  I’ll  wander  thro’; 

And  hopeless,  comfortless,  I’ll  mourn 
A faithless  woman’s  broken  vow. 


LAMENT 

OF  A MOTHER  FOR  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  SON. 

Tune  — “ Finlayston  House” 

Fate  gave  the  word,  the  arrow  sped, 

And  pierc’d  my  darling’s  heart ; 

And  with  him  all  the  joys  are  fled 
Life  can  to  me  impart. 

By  cruel  hands  the  sapling  drops, 

In  dust  dishonor’d  laid  ; 

So  fell  the  pride  of  all  my  hopes, 

My  age’s  future  shade. 

The  mother  linnet,  in  the  brake, 

Bewails  her  ravish’d  young ; 

So  I,  for  my  lost  darling’s  sake, 

Lament  the  live-day  long. 

Death,  oft  I’ve  fear’d  thy  fatal  blow 
Now,  fond,  I bare  my  breast ; 

O,  do  thou  kindly  lay  me  low, 

With  him  I love,  at  rest 1 


116  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


LAMENT 

FOR  JAMES,  EARL  OF  GLENCAIRN. 

The  wind  blew  hollow  frae  the  hills, 

By  fits  the  sun’s  departing  beam 

Look’d  on  the  fading  yellow  woods 

That  wav’d  o’er  Lugar’s  winding  stream; 

Beneath  a craigy  steep,  a bard, 

Laden  with  years  and  meikle  pain, 

In  loud  lament  bewail’d  his  lord, 

Whom  death  had  all  untimely  ta’en. 

He  lean’d  him  to  an  ancient  aik, 

Whose  trunk  was  mould’ring  down  with  years ; 

His  locks  were  bleached  white  wi’  time, 

His  hoary  cheek  was  wet  wi’  tears ! 

And  as  he  touch’d  his  trembling  harp, 

And  as  he  tun’d  his  doleful  sang, 

The  winds,  lamenting  thro’  their  caves, 

To  Echo  bore  the  notes  alang. 

“Ye  scatter’d  birds  that  faintly  sing, 

The  reliques  of  the  vernal  quire! 

Ye  woods  that  shed  on  a’  the  winds 
The  honors  of  the  aged  year! 

A few  short  months,  and  glad  and  gay, 

Again  ye’ll  charm  the  ear  and  e’e ; 

But  nocht,  in  all  revolving  time, 

Can  gladness  bring  again  to  me. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  117 

“1  am  a bending,  aged  tree, 

That  long  has  stood  the  wind  and  rain; 

But  now  has  come  a cruel  blast, 

And  my  last  hald  of  earth  is  gane ; 

Nae  leaf  o"  mine  shall  greet  the  spring 
Nae  simmer  sun  exalt  my  bloom ; 

But  I maun  lie  before  the  storm, 

And  ithers  plant  them  in  my  room. 

“I’ve  seen  sae  monie  changefu’  years, 

On  earth  I am  a stranger  grown; 

I wander  in  the  ways  of  men, 

Alike  unknowing  and  unknown: 

Unheard,  unpitied,  unrelieved, 

I bear  alane  my  lade  o’  care, 

For  silent,  low,  on  beds  <af  dust, 

Lie  a’  that  would  my  sorrows  share. 

“ And  last,  (the  sum  of  a’  my  griefs !) 

My  noble  master  lies  in  clay  ; 

The  flow’r  amang  our  barons  bold, 

His  country’s  pride,  his  country’s  stay ; 

In  weary  being  now  I pine, 

For  a’  the  life  of  life  is  dead, 

And  hope  has  left  my  aged  ken, 

On  forward  wing  for  ever  fled. 

“Awake  thy  last  sad  voice,  my  harp! 

The  voice  of  wo  and  wild  despair ! 

Awake!  resound  thy  latest  lay, 

Then  sleep  in  silence  evermair! 

And  thou,  my  last,  best,  only  friend, 

That  fillest  an  untimely  tomb, 

Accept  this  tribute  from  the  bard 
Thou  brought  from  fortune’s  mirkest  gloom, 

I 

! 


118  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

“In  poverty’s  low,  barren  vale, 

Thick  mists,  obscure,  involv’d  me  round ; 

Tho’  oft  I turn’d  the  wistful  eye, 

Nae  ray  of  fame  was  to  be  found: 

Thou  found’st  me,  like  the  morning  sun 
That  melts  the  fogs  in  limpid  air; 

The  friendless  bard,  and  rustic  song, 
Became  alike  thy  fost’ring  care. 

“ Oh ! why  has  worth  so  short  a date  ? 
While  villains  ripen  gray  with  time, 

Must  thou,  the  noble,  gen’rous,  great, 

Fall  in  bold  manhood’s  hardy  prime  P 

Why  did  I live  to  see  that  day? 

A day  to  me  so  full  of  wo ! 

O,  had  I met  the  iportal  shaft 
Which  laid  my  benefactor  low ! 

“The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride 
Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen; 

The  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 
That  on  his  head  an  hour  has  been ; 

The  mother  may  forget  the  child 

That  smiles  sae  sweetly  on  her  knee; 

But  I’ll  remember  thee,  Glencairn, 

And  a’  that  thou  hast  done  for  me.” 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  119 


LINES, 

SENT  TO  SIR  JOHN  WHITEFORD,  OF  WHITEFORD,  BART., 
WITH  TnE  FOREGOING  POEM. 

Thou  who  thy  honor  as  thy  God  rever’st, 

Who,  save  thy  mind’s  reproach,  nought  earthly  fear’st, 
To  thee  this  votive  off’ring  I impart, 

The  tearful  tribute  of  a broken  heart. 

The  friend  thou  valued’st,  I the  patron  lov’d  ; 

His  worth,  his  honor,  all  the  world  approv’d. 

We’ll  mourn  till  we  too  go  as  he  has  gone, 

And  tread  the  dreary  path  to  that  dark  world  unknown 


STRATHALLAN’S  LAMENT. 

Thickest  night  o’erhangs  my  dwelling! 

Howling  tempests  o’er  me  rave! 
Turbid  torrents  wintry  swelling, 

Still  surround  my  lonely  cave. 

Crystal  streamlets  gently  flowing, 

Busy  haunts  of  base  mankind, 
Western  breezes  softly  blowing, 

Suit  not  my  distracted  mind. 

In  the  cause  of  right  engaged, 

Wrongs  injurious  to  redress, 


120  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Honor’s  war  we  strongly  waged, 
But  the  Heavens  denied  success. 

Ruin’s  wheel  has  driven  o’er  us, 
Not  a hope  that  dare  attend; 
The  wide  world  is  all  before  us, 
But  a world  without  a friend ! 


THE  CHEVALIER’S  LAMENT. 

The  small  birds  rejoice  in  the  green  leaves  returning ; 

The  murmuring  streamlet  winds  clear  thro’  the  vale ; 
The  hawthorn  trees  blow  in  the  dews  of  the  morning, 
And  wild-scatter’d  cowslips  bedeck  the  green  dale : 

But  what  can  give  pleasure,  or  what  can  seem  fair, 
While  the  lingering  moments  are  number’d  by  care  ? 

No  flow’rs  gayly  springing,  nor  birds  sweetly  singing, 
Can  soothe  the  sad  bosom  of  joyless  despair. 

The  deed  that  I dar’d,  could  it  merit  their  malice, 

A king  and  a father  to  place  on  his  throne  ? 

His  right  are  these  hills,  and  his  right  are  these  valleys, 
Where  the  wild  beasts  find  shelter,  but  I can  find  none. 

But  ’tis  not  my  sufferings,  thus  wretched,  forlorn,  — 

My  brave,  gallant  friends,  ’tis  your  ruin  I mourn ; 

Your  deeds  prov’d  so  loyal  in  hot,  bloody  trial. 

Alas ! can  I make  you  no  sweeter  return ! 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  121 


THE  AUTHOR’S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS  NATIVE 
COUNTRY. 

Tune  — “ Roslin  Castle .” 

i. 

The  gloomy  night  is  gath’ring  fast, 

Loud  roars  the  wild,  inconstant  blast, 

Yon  murky  cloud  is  foul  with  rain, 

I see  it  driving  o’er  the  plain ; 

The  hunter  now  has  left  the  moor, 

The  scatter’d  coveys  meet  secure, 

While  here  I wander,  prest  with  care, 

Along  the  lonely  banks  of  Ayr. 

ii. 

The  Autumn  mourns  her  rip’ning  corn 
By  early  Winter’s  ravage  torn ; 

Across  her  placid  azure  sky 
She  sees  the  scowling  tempest  fly: 

Chill  runs  my  blood  to  hear  it  rave, 

I think  upon  the  stormy  wave, 

Where  many  a danger  I must  dare, 

Far  from  the  bonie  banks  of  Ayr. 

hi. 

’Tis  not  the  surging  billows’  roar, 

’Tis  not  that  fatal,  deadly  shore; 

Though  death  in  ev’ry  shape  appear, 

The  wretched  have  no  more  to  fear. 

But  round  my  heart  the  ties  are  bound, 

That  heart  transpierc’d  with  many  a wound; 

11 


122  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

These  bleed  afresh,  those  ties  I tear, 

To  leave  the  bonie  banks  of  Ayr. 

IV. 

Farewell!  old  Coila’s  hills  and  dales, 

Her  heathy  moors  and  winding  vales, 

The  scenes  where  wretched  fancy  roves. 
Pursuing  past,  unhappy  loves! 

Farewell,  my  friends ! farewell,  my  foes ! 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those; 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare, 
Farewell  the  bonie  banks  of  Ayr. 


FAREWELL  TO  AYRSHIRE. 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 
Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew, 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 
Now  a sad  and  last  adieu! 

Bonie  Doon,  sae  sweet  and  gloamin, 
Fare  thee  weel  before  I gang! 

Bonie  Doon,  whare,  early  roaming, 

First  I weav’d  the  rustic  sang! 

Bow’rs,  adieu,  whare  Love,  decoying, 
First  inthrall’d  this  heart  o’  mine, 

There  the  safest  sweets  enjoying, 
Sweets  that  Mem’ry  ne’er  shall  tyne! 

Friends,  so  near  my  bosom  ever, 

Ye  hae  render’d  moments  dear 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  123 

But,  alas ! when  forc’d  to  sever, 

Then  the  stroke,  O how  severe ! 

Friends!  that  parting  tear,  reserve  it, 

Tho’  ’tis  doubly  dear  to  me; 

Could  I think  I did  deserve  it, 

How  much  happier  would  I be! 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew, 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Now  a sad  and  last  adieu! 


THE  FAREWELL  TO  THE  BRETHREN  OF  ST. 
JAMES’S  LODGE,  TARBOLTON. 

Tune  — “ Good  night , and  joy  he  wV  you  a\fn 

i. 

Adieu!  a heart- warm,  fond  adieu! 

Dear  brothers  of  the  mystic  tye! 

Ye  favor’d,  ye  enlighten’d  few, 

Companions  of  my  social  joy ! 

Tho’  I to  foreign  lands  must  hie, 

Pursuing  fortune’s  sliddery  ba’, 

With  melting  heart,  and  brimful  eye, 

I’ll  mind  you  still,  tho’  far  awa’. 

ii. 

Ofl  have  I met  your  social  band, 

And  spent  the  cheerful,  festive  night; 


124  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Oft,  honor’d  with  supreme  command, 
Presided  o’er  the  suns  of  light : 

And  by  that  hieroglyphic  bright, 

Which  none  but  craftsmen  ever  saw ! 

Strong  mem’ry  on  my  heart  shall  write 
Those  happy  scenes,  when  far  awa’. 

hi. 

May  freedom,  harmony,  and  love, 

Unite  you  in  the  grand  design, 

Beneath  the  Omniscient  Eye  above, 

The  glorious  Architect  divine! 

That  you  may  keep  the  unerring  line, 
Still  rising  by  the  plummet’s  law, 

Till  order  bright  completely  shine, 

Shall  be  my  pray’r  when  far  awa’. 

IV. 

And  you,  farewell!  whose  merits  claim, 
Justly,  that  highest  badge  to  wear  ! 

Heav’n  bless  your  honor’d,  noble  name, 
To  Masonry  and  Scotia  dear ! 

A last  request  permit  me  here,  — 

When  yearly  ye  assemble  a’, 

One  round,  — I ask  it  with  a tear, — 
To  him  — the  Bard  that’s  far  awa’! 


— — 

BURNS’S  POEMS*  125 


FAREWELL  TO  ELIZA. 

Tune  — “ Gilder oy” 

i. 

From  thee,  Eliza,  I must  go, 

And  from  my  native  shore; 

The  cruel  fates  between  us  throw 
A boundless  ocean’s  roar: 

But  boundless  oceans,  roaring  wide, 
Between  my  love  and  me, 

They  never,  never  can  divide 
My  heart  and  soul  from  thee. 

ii. 

Farewell,  farewell,  Eliza  dear, 

The  maid  that  I adore! 

A boding  voice  is  in  mine  ear, 

We  part  to  meet  no  more. 

But  the  last  throb  that  leaves  my  heart, 
While  death  stands  victor  by, 

That  throb,  Eliza,  is  thy  part, 

And  thine  that  latest  sigh’ 

IP 


126  burns’s  poems. 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 

Tune  — “ Katharine  Ogie 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 
The  castle  o’  Montgomery, 

Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 
Your  waters  never  drumlie! 

There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry ; 

For  there  I took  the  last  fareweel 
O’  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom’d  the  gay  green  birk, 
How  rich  the  hawthorn’s  blossom ; 

As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade, 

I clasp’d  her  to  my  bosom ! 

The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings, 

Flew  o’er  me  and  my  dearie ; 

For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 
Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi’  many  a vow,  and  lock’d  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu’  tender ; 

And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder: 

But  oh!  fell  death’s  untimely  frost 
That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early! 

Now  green’s  the  sod,  and  cauld’s  the  clay, 
That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary! 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  127 

O,  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips» 

I aft  hae  kiss’d  sae  fondly! 

And  clos’d,  for  ay,  the  sparkling  glance 
That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly! 

And  mould’ring  now,  in  silent  dust*, 

That  heart  that  lo’d  me  dearly! 

But  still,  within  my  bosom’s  core, 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


«*■ 


TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN. 

Thou  ling’ring  star,  with  less’ning  ray 
That  lov’st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 

Again  thou  usher’st  in  the  day 
My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 

O Mary ! dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest! 

Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I forget? 

Can  I forget  the  hallow’d  grove, 

Where,  by  the  winding  Ayr,  we  met, 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love? 

Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past  ; 

Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace ! 

Ah ! little  thought  we  ’twas  our  last ! 

Ayr  gurgling  kiss’d  his  pebbled  shore, 

O’erhung  with  wild-woods,  thick’ning,  green 


128  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar, 

Twin’d  am’rous  round  the  raptur’d  scene. 

The  flow’rs  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  ev’ry  spray, 

Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Proclaim’d  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o’er  these  scenes  my  mem’ry  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care! 

Time  but  th’  impression  deeper  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 

My  Mary ! dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  blissful  place  of  rest? 

Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 


♦ 


ELEGY  ON  THE  LATE  MISS  BURNET, 

OF  MONBODDO. 

Life  ne’er  exulted  in  so  rich  a prize 
As  Burnet,  lovely,  from  her  native  skies; 

Nor  envious  Death  so  triumph’d  in  a blow, 

As  that  which  laid  the  accomplish’d  Burnet  low. 

Thy  form  and  mind,  sweet  maid,  can  I forget? 

In  richest  'ore  the  brightest  jewel  set  ■ 

In  thee,  high  Heav’n  above  was  truest  shown, 

As  by  his  noblest  work  the  Godhead  best  is  known. 

In  vain  ye  flaunt  in  summer’s  pride,  ye  groves ; 
Thou  crystal  streamlet,  with  thy  flow’ry  shore, 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


129 


Ye  woodland  choir  that  chant  your  idle  loves, 

Ye  cease  to  charm  — Eliza  is  no  more! 

Ye  heathy  wastes,  inmix’d  with  reedy  fens, 

Ye  mossy  streams,  with  sedge  and  rushes  stor’d, 

Ye  rugged  cliffs,  o’erhanging  dreary  glens, 

To  you  I fly  — ye  with  my  soul  accord. 

Princes,  whose  cumb’rous  pride  was  all  their  worth, 
Shall  venal  lays  their  pompous  exit  hail ; 

And  thou,  sweet  excellence!  forsake  our  earth, 

And  not  a muse  in  honest  grief  bewail  ? 

We  saw  thee  shine  in  youth  and  beauty’s  pride, 

And  virtue’s  light,  that  beams  beyond  the  spheres; 

But,  like  the  sun  eclips’d  at  morning  tide, 

Thou  left’st  us  darkling  in  a world  of  tears. 

The  parent’s  heart  that  nestled  fond  in  thee, 

That  heart  how  sunk,  a prey  to  grief  and  care! 

So  deck’d  the  woodbine  sweet  yon  aged  tree; 

So  from  it  ravish’d,  leaves  it  bleak  and  bare. 


• ♦ 

VERSES, 

ON  READING,  IN  A NEWSPAPER,  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN 
m’leod,  ESQ.,  BROTHER  TO  A YOUNG  LADY,  A PAR- 
TICULAR FRIEND  OF  THE  AUTHOR’S. 

Sad  thy  tale,  thou  idle  page, 

And  rueful  thy  alarms ! 

Death  tears  the  brother  of  her  love 
From  Isabella’s  arms. 


130  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Sweetly  deck’d  with  pearly  dew 
The  morning  rose  may  blow; 

But  cold,  successive  noontide  blasts 
May  lay  its  beauties  low. 

Fair  on  Isabella’s  morn 
The  sun  propitious  smil’d ; 

But,  long  ere  noon,  succeeding  clouds 
Succeeding  hopes  beguil’d. 

Fate  oft  tears  the  bosom  chords 
That  Nature  finest  strung; 

So  Isabella’s  heart  was  form’d, 

And  so  that  heart  was  wrung. 

Dread  Omnipotence  alone 

Can  heal  the  wound  he  gave ; 

Can  point  the  brimful,  grief-worn  eyes 
To  scenes  beyond  the  grave. 

Virtue’s  blossoms  there  shall  blow, 
And  fear  no  with’ring  blast; 

There  Isabella’s  spotless  worth 
Shall  happy  be  at  last 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  131 


SONNET 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ROBERT  RIDDEL,  ESQ.,  OF  GLEN 
RIDDEL,  APRIL,  1794. 

No  more,  ye  warblers  of  the  wood,  no  more, 

Nor  pour  your  descant,  grating  on  my  soul ; 

Thou  young-eyed  Spring,  gay  in  thy  verdant  stole, 
More  welcome  were  to  me  grim  Winter’s  wildest  roar. 
How  can  ye  charm,  ye  flow’rs,  with  all  your  dyes  ? 
Ye  blow  upon  the  sod  that  wraps  my  friend! 

How  can  I to  the  tuneful  strain  attend  ? 

That  strain  flows  round  th’  untimely  tomb  where  Riddel 
lies ! 

Yes,  pour,  ye  warblers,  pour  the  notes  of  wo, 

And  soothe  the  Virtues  weeping  on  this  bier: 

The  Man  of  Worth,  and  has  not  left  his  peer, 

Is  in  his  “ narrow  house,”  for  ever  darkly  low. 

Thee,  Spring,  again  with  joy  shall  others  greet; 

Me,  mem’ry  of  my  loss  will  only  meet. 


VERSES, 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  JAMES  HUNTER  BLAIR. 

The  lamp  of  day,  with  ill-presaging  glare, 

Dim,  cloudy,  sunk  beneath  the  western  wave ; 
Th’  inconstant  blast  howl’d  thro’  the  dark’ning  air, 
And  hollow  whistled  in  the  rocky  cave. 


132  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Lone  as  I wander’d  by  each  cliff  and  dell, 

Once  the  lov’d  haunts  of  Scotia’s  royal  train;* 

Or  mus’d  where  limpid  streams,  once  hallow’d  well,f 
Or  mould’ring  ruins  mark  the  sacred  fane;J 

Th’  increasing  blast  roar’d  round  the  beetling  rocks, 
The  clouds,  swift-wing’d,  flew  o’er  the  starry  sky, 

The  groaning  trees  untimely  shed  their  locks, 

And  shooting  meteors  caught  the  startled  eye. 

The  paly  moon  rose  in  the  livid  east, 

And  ’mong  the  cliffs  disclosed  a stately  form, 

In  weeds  of  wo,  that  frantic  beat  her  breast, 

And  mixt  her  wailings  with  the  raving  storm. 

Wild  to  my  heart  the  filial  pulses  glow, 

’Twas  Caledonia’s  trophied  shield  I view’d! 

Her  form  majestic  droop’d  in  pensive  wo, 

The  light’ning  of  her  eye  in  tears  imbu’d. 

Revers’d  that  spear,  redoubtable  in  war, 

Reclin’d  that  banner,  erst  in  fields  unfurl’d, 

That  like  a deathful  meteor  gleam’d  afar, 

And  brav’d  the  mighty  monarchs  of  the  world. 

“My  patriot  son  fills  an  untimely  grave!” 

With  accents  wild  and  lifted  arms  she  cried, 

“Low  lies  the  hand  that  oft  was  stretch’d  to  save; 
Low  lies  the  heart  that  swell’d  with  honest  pride  ! 

“A  weeping  country  joins  a widow’s  tear, 

The  helpless  poor  mix  with  the  orphan’s  cry ; 


* The  King’s  Park,  at  Holyrood- House,  t St.  Anthony’s  Well. 
t St.  Anthony’s  Chapel. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  133 

The  drooping  Arts  surround  their  patron’s  bier, 

And  grateful  Science  heaves  the  heartfelt  sigh. 

“ I saw  my  sons  resume  their  ancient  fire ; 

I saw  fair  Freedom’s  blossoms  richly  blow; 

But  ah ! how  hope  is  born  but  to  expire  ! 

Relentless  fate  has  laid  this  guardian  low. 

“ My  patriot  falls  ! but  shall  he  lie  unsung, 

While  empty  greatness  saves  a worthless  name  ? 

No ! ev’ry  muse  shall  join  her  tuneful  tongue, 

And  future  ages  hear  his  growing  fame. 

“And  I will  join  a mother’s  tender  cares, 

Thro’  future  times  to  make  his  virtues  last, 

That  distant  years  may  boast  of  other  Blairs ! ” - 
She  said,  and  vanish’d  with  the  sweeping  blast 


-4> 

ADDRESS 

TO  THE  SHADE  OF  THOMSON,  ON  CROWNING  HIS  BUSl 
AT  EDNAM,  ROXBURGHSHIRE,  WITH  BAYS. 

While  virgin  Spring,  by  Eden’s  flood, 

Unfolds  her  tender  mantle  green, 

Or  pranks  the  sod  in  frolic  mood, 

Or  tunes  iEolian  strains  between ; 

While  Summer,  with  a matron  grace, 

Retreats  to  Dryburgh’s  cooling  shade, 

Yet  oft,  delighted,  stops  to  trace 
The  progress  of  the  spiky  blade ; 

12 


134  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

While  Autumn,  benefactor  kind, 

By  Tweed  erects  his  aged  head, 

And  sees,  with  self-approving  mind, 

Each  creature  on  his  bounty  fed; 

While  maniac  Winter  rages  o’er 
The  hills  whence  classic  Yarrow  flows, 

Rousing  the  turbid  torrent’s  roar, 

Or  sweeping,  wild,  a waste  of  snows : 

So  long,  sweet  poet  of  the  year, 

Shall  bloom  that  wreath  thou  well  hast  won ; 

While  Scotia,  with  exulting  tear, 

Proclaims  that  Thomson  was  her  son! 


* 

EPITAPH 

FOR  THE  AUTHOR’S  FATHER. 

O ye,  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains, 

Draw  near  with  pious  rev’rence,  and  attend; 
Here  lie  the  loving  husband’s  dear  remains, 

The  tender  father,  and  the  gen’rous  friend. 

The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  human  wo; 

The  dauntless  heart  that  fear’d  no  human  pride; 
The  friend  of  man,  to  vice  alone  a foe, 

“For  ev’n  his  failings  lean’d  to  virtue’s  side.”* 


* Goldsmith 


n urns’s  poems.  135 


FOR  R.  A.,  ESQ. 

Know  thou,  O stranger  to  the  fame 
Of  this  much  lov’d,  much  honor’d  name; 
(For  none  that  knew  him  need  be  told,) 
A warmer  heart  Death  ne’er  made  cold. 


ON  A FRIEND. 

An  honest  man  here  lies  at  rest, 

As  e’er  God  with  his  image  blest; 

The  friend  of  man,  the  friend  of  truth ; 
The  friend  of  age,  the  guide  of  youth: 
Few  hearts,  like  his,  with  virtue  warm’d, 
Few  heads  with  knowledge  so  inform’d ; 

If  there’s  another  world,  he  lives  in  bliss ; 
If  there  is  none,  he  made  the  best  of  this. 


A BARD’S  EPITAPH. 

Is  there  a whim-inspir’d  fool, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 
Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool, 
Let  him  draw  near: 


136  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool, 

And  drap  a tear. 

Is  there  a bard  of  rustic  song, 

Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 
That  weekly  this  area  throng, 

O,  pass  not  by ! 

But,  with  a frater-feeling  strong, 

Here  heave  a sigh. 

Is  there  a man  whose  judgment  clear, 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 

Yet  runs,  himself,  life’s  mad  career, 

Wild  as  the  wave; 

Here  pause,  — and,  thro’  the  starting  tear, 
Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

And  softer  flame ; 

But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stain’d  his  name  1 

Reader,  attend  — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy’s  flights  beyond  the  pole, 

Or  darkly  grubs  this  earthly  hole, 

In  low  pursuit; 

Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-control 
Is  wisdom’s  root 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  137 


VERSES 

Olf  THE  BIRTH  OF  A POSTHUMOUS  CHILD,  BORN  IN 
PECULIAR  CIRCUMSTANCES  OF  FAMILY  DISTRESS. 

Sweet  flowret,  pledge  0*  meikle  love, 

And  ward  o’  monie  a pray’r, 

What  heart  o’  stane  wad  thou  na  move, 

Sae  helpless,  sweet,  and  fair! 

November  hirples  o’er  the  lea, 

Chill  on  thy  lovely  form ; 

And  gane,  alas ! the  shelt’ring  tree, 

Should  shield  thee  frae  the  storm. 

May  He  who  gives  the  rain  to  pour, 

And  wings  the  blast  to  blaw, 

Protect  thee  frae  the  driving  show’r, 

The  bitter  frost  and  snaw  ! 

May  He,  the  friend  of  wo  and  want, 

Who  heals  life’s  various  stounds, 

Protect  and  guard  the  mother-plant, 

And  heal  her  cruel  wounds. 

But  late  she  flourish’d,  rooted  fast, 

Fair  on  the  summer  morn ; 

Now,  feebly  bends  she  in  the  blast, 

Unshelter’d  and  forlorn. 

Blest  be  thy  bloom,  thou  lovely  gem, 

Unscath’d  by  ruffian  hand ; 

And  from  thee  many  a parent  stem 
Arise  to  deck  our  land. 

12* 


138  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


LINES 

ON  SCARING  SOME  WATER-FOWL  IN  LOCH  TURIT,  A WILD 
SCENE  AMONG  THE  HILLS  OF  OUGHTERTYRE. 

Why,  ye  tenants  of  the  lake, 

For  me  your  wat’ry  haunt  forsake  ? 

Tell  me,  fellow-creatures,  why 
At  my  presence  thus  you  fly  ? 

Why  disturb  your  social  joys, 

Parent,  filial,  kindred  ties? 

Common  friend  to  you  and  me, 

Nature’s  gifts  to  all  are  free  ! 

Peaceful  keep  your  dimpling  wave, 

Busy  feed  or  wanton  lave; 

Or,  beneath  the  shelt’ring  rock, 

Bide  the  surging  billow’s  shock. 

Conscious,  blushing  for  our  race, 

Soon,  too  soon,  your  fears  I trace; 

Man,  your  proud,  usurping  foe, 

Would  be  lord  of  all  below ; 

Plumes  himself  in  Freedom’s  pride, 

Tyrant  stern  to  all  beside. 

The  eagle  from  the  cliffy  brow, 

Marking  you,  his  prey  below, 

In  his  breast  no  pity  dwells, 

Strong  necessity  compels ; 

But  man,  to  whom  alone  is  giv’n 
A ray  direct  from  pitying  Heav’n, 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  139 

Glories  in  his  heart  humane, 

And  creatures  for  his  pleasure  slain! 

In  these  savage,  liquid  plains, 

Only  known  to  wand’ring  swains, 

Where  the  mossy  riv’let  strays, 

Far  from  human  haunts  and  ways, 

All  on  Nature  you  depend, 

And  life’s  poor  season  peaceful  spend 

Or,  if  man’s  superior  might 
Dare  invade  your  native  right, 

On  the  lofty  ether  borne, 

Man  with  all  his  powers  you  scorn; 

Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings, 

Other  lakes  and  other  springs ; 

And  the  foe  you  cannot  brave, 

Scorn  at  least  to  be  his  slave. 


♦ 


SONNET 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  25th  OF  JANUARY,  1793,  THE  BIRTH. 
DAY  OF  THE  AUTHOR,  ON  HEARING  A THRUSH,  IN  A 
MORNING  WALK. 

Sing  on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafless  bough ; 

Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  I listen  to  thy  strain; 

See ! aged  Winter,  ’mid  his  surly  reign, 

At  thy  blithe  carol,  clears  his  furrow’d  brow; 

So,  in  lone  Poverty’s  dominion  drear, 

Sits  meek  Content,  with  light,  unanxious  heart, 


140  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Welcomes  the  rapid  moments,  bids  them  part, 

Nor  asks  if  they  bring  aught  to  hope  or  fear. 

I thank  thee,  Author  of  this  op’ning  day, 

Thou  whose  bright  sun  now  gilds  yon  orient  skies! 
Riches  denied,  thy  boon  was  purer  joys, 

What  wealth  could  never  give  nor  take  away ! 

Yet  come,  thou  child  of  poverty  and  care ; 

The  mite  high  Heav’n  bestow’d,  that  mite  with  thee  I’ll 
share. 


ON  SENSIBILITY. 

TO  MY  DEAR  AND  MUCH  HONORED  FRIEND,  MRS.  DUN- 
LOP, OF  DUNLOP. 

Sensibility  ! how  charming, 

Thou,  my  friend,  canst  truly  tell; 

But  distress,  with  horrors  arming, 

Thou  hast  also  known  too  well. 

% 

Fairest  flower,  behold  the  lily, 

Blooming  in  the  sunny  ray ; 

Let  the  blast  sweep  o’er  the  valley, 

See  it  prostrate  on  the  clay. 

Hear  the  wood-lark  charm  the  forest, 

Telling  o’er  his  little  joys ; 

Hapless  bird!  a prey  the  surest 
To  each  pirate  of  the  skies. 

Dearly  bought  the  hidden  treasure, 

Finer  feelings  can  bestow ; 

Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure, 

Thrill  the  deepest  notes  of  wo. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  14 1 


TO  A MOUSE, 

05  TURNING  HER  UP  IN  HER  NEST,  WITH  THE  PLOUGH, 
NOVEMBER,  1785. 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow’rin,  tim’rous  beastie! 

O,  what  a panic’s  in  thy  breastie! 

Thou  need  nae  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi’  hickerin  brattle ! 

I wad  be  laith  to  rin  an’  chase  thee, 

Wi’  murd’ring  pattle ! 

I truly  sorrow  man’s  dominion 

Has  broken  Nature’s  social  union, 

An’  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 

At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

An’  fellow-mortal ! 

I doubt  na,  whyles  but  thou  may  thieve! 

What  then?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live! 

A daimen-icker  in  a thrave 

’S  a sma’  request: 

I’ll  get  a blessin  wi’  the  lave, 

And  never  miss’t! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin ! 

Its  silly  wa’s  the  win’s  are  strewin; 

An’  naething,  now,  to  big  a new  ane, 

O’  foggage  green ; 

An’  bleak  December  win’s  ensuin, 

Baith  snell  and  keen! 


142  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an’  waste, 

An’  weary  winter  cornin’  fast, 

An’  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 

Till,  crash!  the  cruel  coulter  past 
Out  thro’  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o’  leaves  an’  stibble 

Has  cost  thee  monie  a weary  nibble! 

Now  thou’st  turn’d  out,  for  a’  thy  trouble, 
But  house  or  hald, 

To  thole  the  winter’s  sleety  dribble, 

An’  cranreuch  cauld ! 

But,  mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 

In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain ; 

The  best  laid  scheme  o’  mice  an’  men, 
Gang  aft  a-gley, 

An’  lea’e  us  nought  but  grief  and  pain 
For  promis’d  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar’d  wi’  me! 

The  present  only  toucheth  thee ; 

But,  och ! I backward  cast  my  e’e, 

On  prospects  drear! 

An’  forward,  tho’  I canna  see, 

I guess  an’  fear! 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  143 


TO  A MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

ON  TURNING  ONE  DOWN  WITH  THE  PLOUGH,  IN 
APRIL,  1786. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson- tipped  flow’r, 

Thou’st  met  me  in  an  evil  hour; 

For  I maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 
Thy  slender  stem ; 

To  SDare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow’r, 

Thou  bonie  gem. 

Alas ! it’s  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 

The  bonie  Lark,  companion  meet, 

Bending  thee  ’mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi’  speckled  breast, 

When  upward-springing,  blithe,  to  greet 
The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  North 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth; 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 
Amid  the  storm, 

Scarce  rear’d  above  the  parent-earth 
Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flow’rs  our  gardens  yield, 

High  shelt’ring  woods  and  wa’s  maun  shield; 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 
O’  clod  or  stane, 

Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 


144  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread, 

Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head, 

In  humble  guise ; 

But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 

Sweet  flow’ret  of  the  rural  shade ! 

By  love’s  simplicity  betray’d, 

And  guileless  trust; 

Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil’d,  is  laid 
Low  i’  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life’s  rough  ocean  luckless  starr’d; 
Unskillful  he  to  note  the  card 
Of  prudent  lore, 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o’er. 

Such  fate  to  suff’ring  worth  is  giv’n, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv’n, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv’n 
To  mis’ry’s  brink ; 

Till,  wrench’d  of  ev’ry  stay  but  Heav’n, 

He,  ruin’d,  sink ! 

Ev’n  thou  who  mourn’d  the  daisy’s  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine  — no  distant  date  ; 

Stern  Ruin’s  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom; 

Till,  crush’d  beneath  the  furrow’s  weight 
Shall  be  thy  doom. 


BURNS’S  rOEMS.  145 


THE  HUMBLE  PETITION  OF  BRUAR  WATER,* 

TO  THE  NOBLE  DUKE  OF  ATIIOLE. 

My  lord,  I know  your  noble  ear 
Wo  ne’er  assails  in  vain: 

Embolden’d  thus,  I beg  you’ll  hear 
Your  humble  slave  complain, — 

How  saucy  Phoebus’  scorching  beams, 

In  flaming  summer-pride, 

Dry-with’ring,  waste  my  foamy  streams, 

And  drink  my  crystal  tide. 

The  lightly-jumping,  glowrin  trouts, 

That  thro’  my  waters  play, 

If,  in  their  random,  wanton  spouts, 

They  near  the  margin  stray ; 

If,  hapless  chance,  they  linger  lang, 

I’m  scorching  up  so  shallow, 

They’re  left  the  whit’ning  stanes  amang, 

In  gasping  death  to  wallow. 

Last  day  I grat  wi’  spite  and  teen, 

As  Poet  B*###  came  by, 

That,  to  a bard,  I should  be  seen 
Wi’  half  my  channel  dry ; 

A panegyric  rhyme,  I ween, 

Ev’n  as  I was,  he  shor’d  me ; 


• Bruar  Falls,  in  Athole,  are  exceedingly  picturesque  and  beautiful} 
but  their  effect  is  much  impaired  by  the  want  of  trees  and  shrubs. 

13 


146 


burns’s  poems. 


But,  had  I in  my  glory  been, 

He,  kneeling,  wad  ador’d  me. 

Here,  foaming  down  the  shelvy  rocks, 

In  twisting  strength  I rin; 

There,  high  my  boiling  torrent  smokes, 
Wild-roaring  o’er  a linn: 

Enjoying  large  each  spring  and  well, 

As  nature  gave  them  me, 

I am,  altho’  I say’t  mysel, 

Worth  gaun  a mile  to  see. 

Would  then  my  noble  master  please 
To  grant  my  highest  wishes, 

He’ll  shade  my  banks  wi’  tow’ring  trees, 
And  bonie  spreading  bushes ; 

Delighted  doubly,  then,  my  lord, 

You’ll  wander  on  my  banks, 

And  listen  monie  a grateful  bird 
Return  you  tuneful  thanks. 

The  sober  lav’rock,  warbling  wild, 

Shall  to  the  skies  aspire ; 

The  gowdspink,  music’s  gayest  child, 
Shall  sweetly  join  the  choir; 

The  blackbird  strong,  the  lintwhite  clear, 
The  mavis  mild  and  mellow; 

The  robin  pensive  autumn  cheer, 

In  all  her  looks  of  yellow: 

This,  too,  a covert  shall  ensure. 

To  shield  them  from  the  storm; 

And  coward  maukin  sleep  secure, 

Low  in  her  grassy  form; 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  147 

Here  shall  the  shepherd  make  his  seat, 

To  weave  his  crown  of  flow’rs ; 

Or  find  a shelt’ring,  safe  retreat, 

From  prone  descending  show’rs. 

And  here,  by  sweet  endearing  stealth, 

Shall  meet  the  loving  pair, 

Despising  words,  with  all  their  wealth, 

As  empty,  idle  care. 

The  flow’rs  shall  vie  in  all  their  charms 
The  hour  of  heav’n  to  grace, 

And  birks  extend  their  fragrant  arms, 

To  screen  the  dear  embrace. 

Here  haply,  too,  at  vernal  dawn, 

Some  musing  bard  may  stray, 

And  eye  the  smoking,  dewy  lawn, 

And  misty  mountain  gray ; 

Or,  by  the  reaper’s  nightly  beam, 

Mild  chequ’ring  thro’  the  trees, 

Rave  to  my  darkly-dashing  stream, 
Hoarse-swelling  on  the  breeze. 

Let  lofty  firs,  and  ashes  cool, 

My  lowly  banks  o’erspread, 

And  view,  deep-bending  in  the  pool, 

Their  shadows’  wat’ry  bed; 

Let  fragrant  birks,  in  woodbines  dre.st, 

My  craggy  cliffs  adorn; 

And,  for  the  little  songster’s  nest, 

The  close  embow’ring  thorn. 

So  may  old  Scotia’s  darling  hope, 

Your  little  angel  band, 


148  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Spring,  like  their  fathers,  up  to  prop 
Their  honor’d  native  land. 

So  may,  thro’  Albion’s  farthest  ken, 

To  social  flowing  glasses, 

The  grace  be  — “Athole’s  honest  men, 
And  Athole’s  bonie  lasses!” 


VERSES 

ON  SEEING  A WOUNDED  HARE  LIMP  BY  ME,  WHICH  A 
FELLOW  HAD  JUST  SHOT  AT. 

Inhuman  man!  curse  on  thy  barb’rous  art, 

And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye : 

May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a sigh, 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart f 

Go,  live,  poor  wand’rer  of  the  wood  and  field, 

The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains ; 

No  more  the  thick’ning  brakes,  and  verdant  plains, 
To  thee  shall  home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 

Seek,  mangled  wretch,  some  place  of  wonted  rest, 

No  more  of  rest,  but  now  thy  dying  bed ! 

The  shelt’ring  rushes  whistling  o’er  thy  head, 

The  cold  earth  with  thy  bloody  bosom  prest 

Oft,  as  by  winding  Nith  I musing  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn, 

I’ll  miss  thee  sporting  o’er  the  dewy  lawn, 

And  curse  the  ruffian’s  aim,  and  mourn  thy  hapless  fata 


CURNS’s  POEMS.  149 


LINES 

WRITTEN  WITH  A PENCIL,  OVER  THE  CHIMNEY-PIECE, 
IN  THE  PARLOR  OF  THE  INN  AT  KENMORE,  TAY* 
MOUTH. 

Admiring  Nature  in  her  wildest  grace, 

These  northern  scenes  with  weary  feet  I trace; 

O’er  many  a winding  dale  and  painful  steep, 

Th’  abodes  of  covey’d  grouse  and  timid  sheep, 

My  savage  journey,  curious,  I pursue, 

Till  fam’d  Breadalbane  opens  to  my  view. 

The  meeting  cliffs  each  deep-sunk  glen  divides, 

The  woods,  wild-scatter’d,  clothe  their  ample  sides; 
Th’  outstretching  lake,  embosom’d  ’mong  the  hills, 
The  eye  with  wonder  and  amazement  fills  ; 

The  Tay,  meand’ring  sweet,  in  infant  pride, 

The  palace  rising  on  his  verdant  side ; 

The  lawns  wood-fring’d  in  Nature’s  native  taste ; 

The  hillocks  dropt  in  Nature’s  careless  haste ; 

The  arches  striding  o’er  the  new-born  stream ; 

The  village  glitt’ring  in  the  noontide  beam  — 

####*########## 

Poetic  ardors  in  my  bosom  swell, 

Lone,  wand’ring  by  the  hermit’s  mossy  cell: 

The  sweeping  theatre  of  hanging  woods ; 

Th’  incessant  roar  of  headlong  tumbling  floods  — 

###########*### 

Here  Poesy  might  wake  her  heav’n-taught  lyre, 

And  look  thro’  Nature  with  creative  fire; 

13* 


150  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Here,  to  the  wrongs  of  Fate  half  reconcil’d, 
Misfortune’s  lighten’d  steps  might  wander  wild; 

And  Disappointment,  in  these  lonely  bounds, 

Fifid  balm  to  soothe  her  bitter,  rankling  wounds; 
Here  heart-struck  Grief  might  heav’nward  stretch  her 
scan, 

And  injur’d  Worth  forget  and  pardon  man. 

###*###*###### 


LINES 

WRITTEN  WITH  A PENCIL,  STANDING  BY  THE  FALL  OF 
FYERS,  NEAR  LOCH-NESS. 

Among  the  heathy  hills  and  ragged  woods, 

The  roaring  Fyers  pours  his  mossy  floods ; 

Till  full  he  dashes  on  the  rocky  mounds, 

Where,  through  a shapeless  breach,  his  stream  resounds. 
As  high  in  air  the  bursting  torrents  flow, 

As  deep  recoiling  surges  foam  below, 

Prone  down  the  rock  the  whitening  sheet  descends, 
And  viewless  Echo’s  ear,  astonish’d,  rends. 

Dim-seen,  through  rising  mists  and  ceaseless  show’rs, 
The  hoary  cavern,  wide-surrounding,  low’rs. 

Still  thro’  the  gap  the  struggling  river  toils, 

And  still  below  the  horrid  cauldron  boils  — 
############### 


BOOK  III. 

FAMILIAR  AND  EPISTOLARY. 

TO  MISS  CRUICKSHANKS, 

A VERY  YOUNG  LADY,  — WRITTEN  ON  THE  BLANK  LEAF 
OF  A BOOK,  PRESENTED  TO  HER  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 

Beauteous  rose-bud,  young  and  gay, 
Blooming  on  thy  early  May, 

Never  may’st  thou,  lovely  flower, 

Chilly  shrink  in  sleety  show’r ! 

Never  Boreas’  hoary  path, 

Never  Eurus’  pois’nous  breath, 

Never  baleful  stellar  lights, 

Taint  thee  with  untimely  blights. 

Never,  never  reptile  thief 
Riot  on  thy  virgin  leaf! 

Nor  even  Sol  too  fiercely  view 
Thy  bosom  blushing  still  with  dew! 

May’st  thou  long,  sweet  crimson  gem, 

Richly  deck  thy  native  stem ; 

Till  some  evening,  sober,  calm, 

Dropping  dews,  and  breathing  balm, 

While  all  around  the  woodland  rings, 

And  ev’ry  bird  thy  requiem  sings ; 


152 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


Thou,  amid  the  dirgeful  sound, 

Shed  thy  dying  honors  round, 

And  resign  to  parent  earth 

The  loveliest  form  she  e’er  gave  birth. 


VERSES 

ON  A YOUNG  LADY,  RESIDING  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE 
SMALL  RIYER  DEVON,  IN  CLACKMANNANSHIRE,  BUT 
WHOSE  INFANT  YEARS  WERE  SPENT  IN  AYRSHIRE. 

How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear- winding  Devon, 
With  green  spreading  bushes,  and  flow’rs  blooming 
fair ; 

But  the  boniest  flow’r  on  the  banks  of  the  Devon 
Was  once  a sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of  the  Ayr. 

Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet-blushing  flower,  * 

In  the  gay,  rosy  morn,  as  it  bathes  in  the  dew ! 

And  gentle  the  fall  of  the  soft  vernal  shower, 

That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to  renew. 

O,  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient  breezes, 

With  chill,  hoary  wing,  as  ye  usher  the  dawn! 

And  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that  seizes 
The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden  and  lawn. 

Let  Bourbon  exult  in  his  gay  gilded  lilies, 

And  England  triumphant  display  her  proud  rose ; 

A fairer  than  either  adorns  the  green  valleys 
Where  Devon,  sweet  Devon,  meandering  flows. 




BURNS’S  POEMS. 


153 


Tb  MISS  L , 

with  Beattie’s  poems  as  a new-year’s  gift,  tan< 
uary  1,  1787. 

Again  the  silent  wheels  of  time 
Their  annual  round  have  driv’n, 

And  you,  tho’  scarce  in  maiden  prime, 

Are  so  much  nearer  heav’n. 

No  gifts  have  I,  from  Indian  coasts, 

The  infant  year  to  hail ; 

I send  you  more  than  India  boasts, 

In  Edwin’s  simple  tale. 

Our  sex  with  guile  and  faithless  love 
Is  charg’d,  perhaps  too  true  ; 

But  may,  dear  maid,  each  lover  prove 
An  Edwin  still  to  you. 


VERSES 

to  a young  lady,  with  a present  of  songs. 

Here,  where  the  Scottish  muse  immortal  lives, 
In  sacred  strains  and  tuneful  numbers  join’d, 
Accept  the  gift;  tho’  humble  he  who  gives, 

Rich  is  the  tribute  of  the  grateful  mind. 


154  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

So  may  no  ruffian-feeling  in  thy  breast 
Discordant  jar  thy  bosom-chords  among ; 
But  peace  attune  thy  gentle  soul  to  rest, 

Or  love  ecstatic  wake  his  seraph  song: 

# 

Or  pity’s  notes,  in  luxury  of  tears, 

As  modest  want  the  tale  of  wo  reveals ; 
While  conscious  virtue  all  the  strain  endears, 
And  heav’n-born  piety  her  sanction  seals. 


VERSES 

Written  on  the  blank  leaf  of  a copy  of  his 

POEMS,  PRESENTED  TO  A LADY,  WHOM  HE  HAD  OF- 
TEN CELEBRATED  UNDER  THE  NAME  OF  CHLORIS. 

’Tis  Friendship’s  pledge,  my  young,  fair  friend, 

Nor  thou  the  gift  refuse, 

Nor  with  unwilling  ear  attend 
The  moralizing  muse. 

Since  thou,  in  all  thy  youth  and  charms, 

Must  bid  the  world  adieu, 

(A  world  ’gainst  peace  in  constant  arms,) 

To  join  the  friendly  few ; 

Since,  thy  gay  morn  of  life  o’ercast, 

Chill  came  the  tempest’s  lower ; 

(And  ne’er  misfortune’s  eastern  bias 
Did  nip  a fairer  flow’r;) 


burns’s  poems.  • 155  * 

Since  life’s  gay  scenes  must  charm  no  more, 

Still  much  is  left  behind; 

Still  nobler  wealth  hast  thou  in  store, — 

The  comforts  of  the  mind ! 

Thine  is  the  self-approving  glow, 

On  conscious  honor’s  part; 

And,  dearest  gift  of  Heav’n  below, 

Thine  friendship’s  truest  heart. 

The  joys  refin’d  of  sense  and  taste, 

With  every  muse  to  rove ; 

And  doubly  were  the  Poet  blest, 

These  joys  could  he  improve. 


•> 


TO  A YOUNG  LADY, 

MISS  JESSY  L , DUMFRIES  ; WITH  BOOKS  WHICH 

THE  BARD  PRESENTED  HER. 

Thine  be  the  volumes,  Jessy  fair, 

And  with  them  take  the  Poet’s  prayer; 

That  Fate  may,  in  her  fairest  page, 

With  ev’ry  kindliest,  best  presage 
Of  future  bliss,  enrol  thy  name, 

With  native  worth  and  spotless  fame, 

And  wakeful  caution,  still  aware 
Of  ill  — but  chief,  man’s  felon  snare  ; 

All  blameless  joys  on  earth  we  find, 

And  all  the  treasures  of  the  mind: 

These  be  thy  guardian  and  reward, 

So  prays  thy  faithful  friend,  the  Bard. 


156  BURNS’S  POEMS 


VERSES 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  BLANK  LEAF  OF  A COPY  OF  HIS 
POEMS,  PRESENTED  TO  AN  OLD  SWEETHEART,  THEN 
MARRIED. 

Once  fondly  lov’d,  and  still  remember’d  dear, 

Sweet  early  object  of  my  youthful  vows, 

Accept  this  mark  of  friendship,  warm,  sincere,  — 
Friendship  ! — ’tis  art  cold  duty  now  allows : 

And  when  you  read  the  simple,  artless  rhymes, 

One  friendly  sigh  for  him,  he  asks  no  more, 
Who  distant  burns  in  flaming,  torrid  climes, 

Or  haply  lies  beneath  the  Atlantic  roar. 

4- 

TO  J.  S**##. 

Friendship!  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul, 

Sweet’ner  of  life,  and  solder  of  society! 

I owe  thee  much.  Blair. 

Dear  the  sleest,  paukie  thief, 

That  e’er  attempted  stealth  or  rief, 

Ye  surely  hae  some  warlock-breef 
Owre  human  hearts ; 

For  ne’er  a bosom  yet  was  prief 
Against  your  arts. 

For  me,  I swear  by  sun  and  moon, 

And  ev’ry  star  that  blinks  aboon, 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  157 

Ye’ve  cost  me  twenty  pair  o’  shoon, 

Just  gaun  to  see  you; 

And  ev’ry  ither  pair  that’s  done, 

Mair  ta’en  I’m  wi’  you. 

That  auld  capricious  carlin,  Nature, 

To  mak  amends  for  scrimpit  stature, 

She’s  turn’d  you  aff’  a human  creature 
On  her  first  plan, 

And  in  her  freaks,  on  ev’ry  feature, 

She’s  wrote  the  Man. 

Just  now  I’ve  ta’en  the  fit  o’  rhyme, 

My  barmie  noddle’s  working  prime, 

My  fancie  yerkite  up  sublime, 

Wi’  hasty  summon; 

Hae  ye  a leisure  moment’s  time 

To  hear  what’s  comin  ? 

Some  rhyme,  a neebor’s  name  to  lash; 

Some  rhyme,  (vain  thought !)  for  needfu’  cash  ! 
Some  rhyme  to  court  the  countra  clash, 

An’  raise  a din ; 

For  me,  an  aim  I never  fash ; 

I rhyme  for  fun! 

The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot, 

Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat, 

And  damn’d  my  fortune  to  the  groat; 

But  in  requit, 

Has  bless’d  me  wi’  a random  shot 
O’  countra  wit. 

This  while  my  notion’s  ta’en  a sklent, 

To  try  my  fate  in  guid  black  prent; 

14 


158  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

But  still  the  mair  I’m  that  way  bent, 

Something  cries,  “ Hoolie ! 

I rede  you,  honest  man,  tak  tent! 

Ye’ll  shaw  your  folly. 

“There’s  ither  poets,  much  your  betters, 
Far  seen  in  Greek,  deep  men  o’  letters, 
Hae  thought  they  had  insur’d  their  debtors 
A’  future  ages  ; — 

Now  moths  deform,  in  shapeless  tatters, 
Their  unknown  pages.” 

Then  fareweel  hopes  o’  laurel-boughs, 

To  garland  my  poetic  brows  ! 

Henceforth  I’ll  rove  where  busy  ploughs 
Are  whistling  thrang, 

An’  teach  the  lanely  heights  and  howes 
My  rustic  sang. 

I’ll  wander  on  wi’  tentless  heed, 

How  never-halting  moments  speed, 

Till  fate  shall  snap  the  brittle  thread; 

Then,  all  unknown, 

I’ll  lay  me  with  th’  inglorious  dead, 

Forgot  and  gone! 

But  why,  O Death,  begin  a tale? 

Just  now  we’re  living,  sound,  and  hale! 
Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail,  — • 
Heave  Care  o’er-side ! 

And  large,  before  Enjoyment’s  gale. 

Let’s  tak  the  tide. 

This  life,  sae  far’s  I understand 
Is  a’  enchanted,  fairy  land, 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  159 

Where  Pleasure  is  the  magic  wand 
That,  wielded  right, 

Maks  hours,  like  minutes,  hand  in  hand, 

Dance  by  fu’  light. 

The  magic  wand  then  let  us  wield, 

For,  ance  that  five-an’-forty’s  speel’d, 

See  crazy,  weary,  joyless  Eild, 

Wi’  wrinkled  face, 

Comes  hostin,  hirplin  owre  the  field, 

Wi’  creepin  pace. 

When  ance  life’s  day  draws  near  the  gloamin, 
Then  fareweel  vacant,  careless  roamin, 

An’  fareweel  cheerfu’  tankards  foamin, 

An’  social  noise ; 

An’  fareweel  dear,  deluding  Woman, 

The  joy  of  joys  ! 

O life ! how  pleasant  in  thy  morning ! 

Young  Fancy’s  rays  the  hills  adorning! 

Cold,  pausing  Caution’s  lessons  scorning, 

We  frisk  away, 

Like  school-boys,  at  th’  expected  warning 
To  joy  and  play. 

We  wander  there,  we  wander  here, 

We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier, 

Unmindful  that  the  thorn  is  near, 

Among  the  leaves ; 

And,  though  the  puny  wound  appear, 

Short  while  it  grieves. 

Some,  lucky,  find  a flow’ry  spot, 

For  which  they  never  toil’d  nor  swat; 


160  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

They  drink  the  sweet,  and  eat  the  fat. 

But  care  or  pain; 

And  haply  eye  the  barren  hut 
With  high  disdain. 

WWi  steady  aim,  some  Fortune  chase; 

Keen  Hope  does  ev’ry  sinew  brace; 

Thro’  fair,  thro’  foul,  they  urge  the  race, 
And  seize  the  prey; 

Then  canie,  in  some  cozie  place, 

They  close  the  day. 

And  others,  like  your  humble  servan’, 

Poor  wights!  nae  rules  nor  roads  observin; 

To  right  or  left  eternal  swervin, 

They  zig-zag  on ; 

Till  curst  with  age,  obscure  an’  starvin, 
They  aften  groan. 

Alas ! what  bitter  toil  an’  straining  — 

But,  truce  with  peevish,  poor  complaining! 

Is  Fortune’s  fickle  Luna  waning? 

E’en  let  her  gang ! 

Beneath  what  light  she  has  remaining, 

Let’s  sing  our  sang. 

My  pen  I here  fling  to  the  door, 

And  kneel,  “ Ye  Powers ! ” and  warm  implore, 

“Tho’  I should  wander  Terra  o’er, 

In  all  her  climes, 

Grant  me  but  this,  I ask  no  more, 

Ay  rowth  o’  rhymes. 

“Gie  dreeping  roasts  to  countra  lairds 

Till  icicles  hing  frae  their  beards* 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  161 

Gie  fine  braw  claes  to  fine  Life-Guards, 

And  Maids  o’  Honor; 

And  yill  an’  whiskey  gie  to  Cairds, 

Until  they  sconner. 

“A  title,  Dempster  merits  it; 

A garter  gie  to  Willie  Pitt; 

Gie  wealth  to  some  beleger’d  cit, 

In  cent,  per  cent. ; 

But  gie  me  real,  sterling  wit, 

And  I’m  content. 

“While  ye  are  pleas’d  to  keep  me  hale, 

I’ll  sit  down  o’er  my  scanty  meal, 

Be’t  water-brose,  or  muslin-kail, 

Wi’  cheerfu’  face, 

As  lang’s  the  Muses  dinna  fail 
To  say  the  grace.” 

An  anxious  e’e  I never  throws 
Behint  my  lug,  or  by  my  nose ; 

I jouk  beneath  Misfortune’s  blows 
As  weel’s  I may ; 

Sworn  foe  to  Sorrow,  Care,  and  Prose, 

I rhyme  away. 

O ye  douce  folk,  that  live  by  rule, 

Grave,  tideless-bloody,  calm,  and  cool, 

Compar’d  wi’  you  — O fool ! fool ! fool  * 

How  much  unlike ! 

Your  hearts  are  just  a standing  pool ; 

Your  lives,  a dyke! 

Nae  hair-brain’d,  sentimental  traces 
In  your  unletter’d  nameless  faces, 

14* 


162 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


In  arioso  trills  and  graces 

Ye  never  stray; 

But,  gravissimo,  solemn  basses 
Ye  hum  away. 

Ye  are  sae  grave,  nae  doubt  ye’re  wise; 

Nae  ferly  tho’  ye  do  despise 

The  hairum  scairum,  ram-stam  boys, 

The  rattlin  squad: 

I see  you  upward  cast  your  eyes  — 

Ye  ken  the  road. 

Whilst  I — but  I shall  haud  me  there  — 
Wi’  you  I’ll  scarce  gang  ony  where; 
Then,  Jamie,  I shall  say  nae  mair, 

But  quat  my  sang, 

Content  wi’  you  to  mak  a pair, 

Whare’er  I gang. 


EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE, 

A BROTHER  POET.* 

January, 

i. 

While  winds  frae  aff  Ben-Lomond  blaw, 
And  bar  the  doors  wi’  driving  snaw, 

And  hing  us  owre  the  ingle, 

I sit  me  down  to  pass  the  time, 

And  spin  a verse  or  twa  o’  rhyme, 

In  hamely  westlin  jingle. 


* David  Sillar,  one  of  the  Club  at  Tarbolton,  and  author  of  a volumo 
•f  Poems  in  the  Scottish  dialect. 


BURNs’s  POEMS. 


163 


While  frosty  winds  blaw  in  the  drill, 
Ben  to  the  chimla  lug, 

I grudge  a wee  the  great  folks’  gift, 
That  live  sae  bien  and  snug: 

I tent  less,  and  want  less, 

Their  roomy  fire-side; 

But  hanker  and  canker, 

To  see  their  cursed  pride. 

ii. 

It’s  hardly  in  a body’s  pow’r 
To  keep  at  times  frae  being  sour, 

To  see  how  things  are  shar’d ; 

How  best  o’  chiels  are  whiles  in  want, 
While  coofs  on  countless  thousands  rant, 
And  ken  na  how  to  wair’t: 

But,  Davie,  lad,  ne’er  fash  your  head, 
Tho’  we  hae  little  gear, 

We’re  fit  to  win  our  daily  bread, 

As  lang’s  were  hale  and  fier ; 

“Mair  spier  na,  no  fear  na,”# 

Auld  age  ne’er  mind  a feg, 

The  last  o’t,  the  warst  o’t, 

Is  only  for  to  beg. 

in. 

To  lie  in  kilns  and  barns  at  e’en, 

When  banes  are  craz’d  and  bluid  is  thin, 
Is,  doubtless,  great  distress ! 

Yet  then  content  could  make  us  blest; 
Ev’n  then,  sometimes  we’d  snatch  a taste 
Of  truest  happiness. 

The  honest  heart  that’s  free  frae  a’ 


# Ramsay 


104  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Intended  fraud  or  guile, 

However  Fortune  kick  the  ba’, 

Has  ay  some  cause  to  smile; 

And  mind  still,  you’ll  find  still, 

A comfort  this  nae  sma’; 

Nae  mair  then,  we’ll  care  then, 

Nae  farther  can  we  fa’. 

IV. 

What  tho’,  like  commoners  of  air, 

We  wander  out  we  know  not  where, 

But  either  house  or  hal’ ! 

Yet  nature’s  charms,  the  hills  and  woods, 
The  sweeping  vales  and  foaming  floods, 
Are  free  alike  to  all. 

In  days  when  daisies  deck  the  ground, 
And  blackbirds  whistle  clear, 

With  honest  joy  our  hearts  will  bound, 
To  see  the  coming  year: 

On  braes  when  we  please,  then, 
We’ll  sit  an’  sowth  a tune; 

Syne  rhyme  till’t,  we’ll  time  till’t, 
And  sing’t  when  we  hae  done. 

v. 

It’s  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank, 

It’s  no  in  wealth  like  Lon’on  bank, 

To  purchase  peace  and  rest ; 

It’s  no  in  makin  muckle  mair, 

It’s  no  in  books,  it’s  no  in  lear, 

To  make  us  truly  blest; 

If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 
And  centre  in  the  breast, 

We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 

But  never  can  be  blest: 


fml'-  ■ ' 

BURNS’S  POEMS.  165 

Nae  treasures,  nor  pleasures, 

Could  make  us  happy  lang; 

The  heart’s  ay  the  part  ay 

That  makes  us  right  or  wrang. 

VI. 

Think  ye,  that  sic  as  you  and  I, 

Wha  drudge  an’  drive  thro’  wet  an’  dry, 

Wi’  never  ceasing  toil ; 

Think  ye,  are  we  less  blest  than  they, 

Wha  scarcly  tent  us  in  their  way, 

As  hardly  worth  their  while  ? 

Alas!  how  aft,  in  haughty  mood, 

God’s  creatures  they  oppress ! 

Or  else,  neglecting  a’  that’s  guid, 

They  riot  in  excess! 

Baith  careless  and  fearless 
Of  either  heav’n  or  hell! 

Esteeming,  and  deeming 
It’s  a’  an  idle  tale ! 

VII. 

Then  let  us  cheerfu’  acquiesce, 

Nor  make  our  scanty  pleasures  less, 

By  pining  at  our  state ; 

And,  even  should  misfortunes  come, 

I,  here  wha  sit,  hae  met  wi’  some, 

An’  ’s  thankfu’  for  them  yet. 

They  gie  the  wit  of  age  to  youth; 

They  let  us  ken  oursel , 

They  make  us  see  the  naked  truth, 

The  real  guid  and  ill. 

Tho’  losses  and  crosses 
Be  lessons  right  severe, 


166 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


There’s  wit  there,  ye’ll  get  there, 
Ye’ll  find  na  other  where. 

VIII. 

But  tent  me,  Davie,  ace  o’  hearts! 

(To  say  aught  less  wad  wrang  the  cartes, 
And  flatt’ry  I detest;) 

This  life  has  joys  for  you  and  I ; 

And  joys  that  riches  ne’er  could  buy; 

And  joys  the  very  best. 

There’s  a’  the  pleasures  o’  the  heart, 

The  lover  an’  the  frien’ : 

Ye  hae  your  Meg,  your  dearest  part, 

And  I my  darling  Jean! 

It  warms  me,  it  charms  me, 

To  mention  but  her  name: 

It  heats  me,  it  beets  me, 

And  sets  me  a’  on  flame! 


IX. 

O,  all  ye  Pow’rs  who  rule  above ! 

O Thou,  whose  very  self  art  love! 

Thou  know’st  my  words  sincere! 

The  life-blood  streaming  thro’  my  heart, 
Or  my  more  dear  immortal  part, 

Is  not  more  fondly  dear: 

When  heart-corroding  care  and  grief 
Deprive  my  soul  of  rest, 

Her  dear  idea  brings  relief 
And  solace  to  my  breast. 

Thou  Being,  All-seeing, 

O hear  my  fervent  pray’r: 

Still  take  her,  and  make  her 
Thy  most  peculiar  care* 


BORNS’s  POEMS.  167 

x. 

All  hail,  ye  tender  feelings  dear! 

The  smile  of  love,  the  friendly  tear, 

The  sympathetic  glow; 

Long  since,  this  world’s  thorny  ways 

Had  number’d  out  my  weary  days, 

Had  it  not  been  for  you ! 

Fate  still  has  blest  me  with  a friend, 

In  every  care  and  ill ; 

And  oft  a more  endearing  band, 

A tie  more  tender  still. 

It  lightens,  it  brightens, 

The  tenebrific  scene, 

To  meet  with,  and  greet  with, 

My  Davie  or  my  Jean. 

XI. 

O,  how  that  name  inspires  my  style ! 

The  words  come  skelpin  rank  and  file, 

Amaist  before  I ken! 

The  ready  measure  rins  as  fine, 

As  Phoebus  and  the  famous  Nine 
Were  glowrin  owre  my  pen. 

My  spaviet  Pegasus  will  limp, 

Till  ance  he’s  fairly  het; 

And  then  he’ll  hilch,  and  stilt,  and  jimp, 

An’  rin  an  unco  fit: 

But  lest  then,  the  beast  then, 

Should  rue  this  hasty  ride, 

I’ll  light  now,  and  dight  now, 

His  sweaty,  wizen’d  hide. 


168  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

AULD  NEEBOR, — 

I’m  three  times  doubly  o’er  your  debtor, 

For  your  auld-farrant,  frien’ly  letter, 

Tho’  I maun  say’t,  I doubt  ye  flatter, 

Ye  speak  sae  fair; 

For  my  puir,  silly,  rhymin’  clatter, 

Some  less  maun  sair. 

Hale  be  your  heart,  hale  be  your  fiddle  ; 

Lang  may  your  elbuck  jink  and  diddle, 

To  cheer  you  thro’  the  weary  widdle 
O’  war’ly  cares, 

Till  bairns’  bairns  kindly  cuddle 

Your  auld  gray  hairs. 

But,  Davie,  lad,  I’m  red  ye’re  glaikit ; 

I’m  tauld  the  Muse  ye  hae  negleckit, 

An’  gif  it’s  sae,  ye  sud  be  licket 
Until  ye  fyke; 

Sic  hauns  as  you  sud  ne’er  be  faikit, 

Be  hain’t  wha  like. 

For  me,  I’m  on  Parnassus’  brink, 

Rivin  the  words  tae  gar  them  clink ; 

Whyles  daez’t  wi’  love,  whyles  daez’t  wi’  drink, 
Wi’  jads  or  masons ; 

An’  whyles,  but  ay  owre  late,  I think 
Braw  sober  lessons. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  1G9 

Of  a’  the  thoughtless  sons  o’  man, 

Commen’  me  to  the  Bardie  clan ; 

Except  it  be  some  idle  plan 
O’  rhymin’  clink, 

The  devil-haet,  that  I sud  ban, 

They  ever  think. 

Nae  thought,  nae  view,  nae  scheme  o’  livin’, 

Nae  cares  tae  gie  us  joy  or  grievin’ ; 

But  just  the  pouchie  put  the  nieve  in, 

An’  while  aught’s  there, 

Then  hiltie,  skiltie,  we  gae  scrievin’, 

An’  fash  nae  mair. 

Leeze  me  on  rhyme!  it’s  ay  a treasure, 

My  chief,  amaist  my  only  pleasure, 

At  hame,  a-fiel’,  at  wark  or  leisure, 

The  Muse,  poor  hizzie, 

Tho’  rough  an  raploch  be  her  measure, 

She’s  seldom  lazy. 

Haud  tae  the  Muse,  my  daintie  Davie! 

The  warl’  may  play  you  monie  a shavie, 

But  for  the  Muse,  she’ll  never  leave  ye, 

Tho’  e’er  sae  puir ; 

Na,  ev’n  tho’  limpin  wi’  the  spavie 
Frae  door  to  door. 

15 


170  BURNS  S POEMS. 


EPISTLE  TO  J.  LAPRAIR, 

AN  OLD  SCOTTISH  BARD,  APRIL  1,  1785. 

While  briers  an’  woodbines  budding  green, 
An’  paitricks  scraichin  loud  at  e’en, 

An’  morning  poussie  whiddin  seen, 

Inspire  my  Muse, 

This  freedom  in  an  unknown  frien 
I pray  excuse. 

On  fasteen-e’en  we  had  a rockin, 

To  ca’  the  crack  and  weave  our  stockin, 
And  there  was  muckle  fun  an’  jokin 
Ye  need  na  doubt: 

At  length  we  had  a hearty  yokin 
At  sang  about. 

There  was  ae  sang,  amang  the  rest, 

Aboon  them  a’  it  pleas’d  me  best, 

That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest 
To  some  sweet  wife; 

It  thrill’d  the  heart-strings  thro’  the  breast, 
A’  to  the  life. 

I’ve  scarce  heard  aught  describe  sae  weel, 
What  gen’rous,  manly  bosoms  feel ; 

Thought  I,  “Can  this  be  Pope,  or  Steele, 
Or  Beattie’s  wark?” 

They  told  me  ’twas  an  odd  kind  chiel 
About  Muirkirk. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  171 

It  pat  me  fidgin-fain  to  hear’t, 

And  sae  about  him  there  I spier’t, 

Then  a’  that  kent  him  round  declar’d 
He  had  ingine, 

That  nane  excell’d  it,  few  cam  near’t, 

It  was  sae  fine. 

That  set  him  to  a pint  of  ale, 

An’  either  douce  or  merry  tale, 

Of  rhymes  an’  sangs  he’d  made  himsel, 

Or  witty  catches, 

’Tween  Inverness  and  Teviotdale, 

He  had- few  matches. 

Then  up  I gat,  an’  swore  an  aith, 

Tho’  I should  pawn  my  pleugh  and  graith, 

Or  die  a cadger-pownie’s  death, 

At  some  dyke-back, 

A pint  an’  gill  I’d  gie  them  baith 
To  hear  your  crack. 

But  first  an’  foremost,  I should  tell, 

Amaist  as  soon  as  I could  spell, 

I to  the  crambo-jingle  fell, 

Tho’  rude  an’  rough, 

Yet  crooning  to  a body’s  sel, 

Does  weel  enough. 

I am  nae  poet,  in  a sense, 

But  just  a rhymer,  like,  by  chance, 

An’  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence; 

Yet  what  tha  matter? 

Whene’er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I jingle  at  her 


172  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Your  critic-folk  may  cock  their  nose, 

And  say,  “How  can  you  e’er  propose, 
You  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose, 

To  mak  a sang  ? ” 

But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes, 
Ye’re  may  be  wrang. 

What’s  a’  your  jargon  o’  your  schools, 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  an’  stools, 

If  honest  Nature  made  you  fools  ? 

What  sairs  your  grammars? 
Ye’d  better  taen  up  spades  and  shools, 

Or  knappin-hammers. 

A set  o’  dull,  conceited  hashes 
Confuse  their  brains  in  college  classes ! 
They  gang  in  stirks,  and  come  out  asses, 
Plain  truth  to  speak; 

An’  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 
By  dint  o’  Greek! 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o’  Nature’s  fire, 

That’s  a’  the  learning  I desire ; 

Then,  tho’  I drudge  thro’  dub  an’  mire, 
At  pleugh  or  cart, 

My  Muse,  tho’  hamely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart. 

O for  a spunk  o’  Allan’s  glee, 

Or  Fergusson’s,  the  bauld  and  slee, 

Or  bright  Lapraik’s,  my  friend  to  be, 

If  I can  hit  it ! 

That  would  be  lear  enough  for  me. 

If  I could  get  it 1 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  173 

Now,  sir,  if  ye  hae  friends  enow, 

Tho’  real  friends,  I b’lieve,  are  few, 

Yet,  if  your  catalogue  be  fou, 

I’se  no  insist; 

But  gif  ye  want  a friend  that’s  true, 

I’m  on  your  list. 

I winna  blaw  about  mysel; 

As  ill  I like  my  fauts  to  tell; 

But  friends  and  folk  that  wish  me  well, 

They  sometimes  roose  me, 

Tho’  I maun  own,  as  monie  still 
As  far  abuse  me. 

There’s  ae  wee  faut  they  whyles  lay  to  me  - 

I like  the  lasses  — Gude  forgie  me ! 

For  monie  a plack  they  wheedle  frae  me, 

At  dance  or  fair; 

May  be,  some  ither  thing  they  gie  me, 

They  we  el  can  spare. 

But  Mauchline  race,  or  Mauchline  fair, 

I should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there; 

We’se  gie  ae  night’s  discharge  to  care, 

If  we  forgather, 

An’  hae  a swap  o’  rhymin-ware 
Wi’  ane  anither. 

The  four-gill  chap,  we’se  gar  him  clatter, 

An’  kirsen  him  wi’  reekin  water; 

Syne  we’ll  sit  down  an’  tak  our  whitter, 

To  cheer  our  heart; 

An’  faith,  we’se  be  acquainted  better 
Before  we  part. 

15* 


174  BURNs’s  POEMS. 

Awa,  ye  selfish,  warly  race, 

Wha  think  that  havins,  sense  an5  grace, 
Ev’n  love  and  friendship  should  give  place 
To  catch-the-plack ! 

I dinna  like  to  see  your  face, 

Nor  hear  your  crack. 

But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms, 
Whose  hearts  the  tide  of  kindness  warms, 
Who  hold  your  being  on  the  terms,  — 

“ Each  aid  the  others  ! 99 
Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  arms, 

My  friends,  my  brothers ! 

But,  to  conclude  my  lang  epistle, 

As  my  auld  pen’s  worn  to  the  grissle ; 
Twa  lines  frae  you  wad  gar  me  fissle, 
Who  am,  most  fervent, 

While  I can  either  sing  or  whissle, 

Your  friend  and  servant. 


TO  THE  SAME. 
april  21,  1785. 

While  new-ca’d  kye  rout  at  the  stake, 
An’  pownies  reek  in  pleugh  or  braik, 
This  hour  on  e’enin’s  edge  I take, 

To  own  I’m  debtor 
To  honest-hearted,  auld  Lapraik, 

For  his  kind  letter. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  175 

Forjesket  sail*,  with  weary  legs, 

Rattlin  the  corn  out  owre  the  rigs, 

Or  dealing  thro’  amang  the  nags 
Their  ten-hours’  bite, 

My  awkwart  Muse  sair  pleads  and  begs 
I would  na  write. 

The  tapetless,  ramfeezl’d  hizzie, 

She’s  saft  at  best,  and  something  lazy ; 

Quo’  she,  “Ye  ken  we’ve  been  sae  busy, 

This  month  an’  mair, 

That,  trouth,  my  head  is  grown  right  dizzie, 
And  something  sair.” 

Her  dowff  excuses  pat  me  mad : 

“ Conscience ! ” says  I,  “ ye  thowless  jad ! 

I’ll  write,  an’  that  a hearty  blaud, 

This  vera  night; 

So  dinna  ye  affront  your  trade, 

But  rhyme  it  right. 

“Shall  bauld  Lapraik,  the  king  o’  hearts, 

Tho’  mankind  were  a pack  of  cartes, 

Roose  you  sae  weel  for  your  deserts, 

In  terms  sae  friendly, 

Yet  ye’ll  neglect  to  show  your  parts, 

And  thank  him  kindly  ! ” 

Sae  I gat  paper  in  a blink, 

And  down  gaed  stumpie  in  the  ink ; 

Quoth  I,  “Before  I sleep  a wink, 

I vow  I’ll  close  it; 

An’  if  you  winna  mak  it  clink, 

By  Jove  I’ll  prose  it 1 v 


176 


BURNS’s  POEMS. 


Sae  I’ve  begun  to  scrawl,  but  whether 
In  rhyme  or  prose,  or  baith  thegither, 

Or  some  hotch-potch  that’s  rightly  neither, 
Let  time  mak  proof ; 

But  I shall  scribble  down  some  blether 
Just  clean  aff-loof. 

My  worthy  friend,  ne’er  grudge  an’  carp, 
Tho’  fortune  use  you  hard  an’  sharp ; 
Come,  kittle  up  your  moorland  harp 
Wi’  gleesome  touch! 

Ne’er  mind  how  Fortune  waft  an’  warp; 
She’s  but  a b-tch. 

She’s  gien  me  monie  a jest  an’  fleg 
Sin’  I could  striddle  owre  a rig ; 

But,  by  the  L — d,  tho’  I should  beg 
Wi’  lay  art  pow, 

I’ll  laugh  an’  sing,  an’  shake  my  leg, 

As  lang’s  I dow ! 

Now  comes  the  sax-an’-twentieth  simmer 
I’ve  seen  the  bud  upo’  the  timmer, 

Still  persecuted  by  the  limmer, 

Frae  year  to  year; 

But  yet,  despite  the  kittle  kimmer, 

I,  Rob,  am  here. 

Do  ye  envy  the  city  gent, 

Behind  a kist  to  lie  and  skient, 

Or  purse-proud,  big  wi’  cent,  per  cent, 
And  muckle  wane, 

In  some  bit  burgh  to  represent 
A bailie’s  name  ? 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  177 

Or,  is’t  the  paughty,  feudal  thane, 

Wi’  ruffled  sark  an’  glancing  cane 
Wha  thinks  himsel  nae  sheep-shank  bane, 

But  lordly  stalks, 

While  caps  and  bonnets  aff  are  taen, 

As  by  he  walks  ? 

“ O Thou,  wha  gies  us  each  guid  gift, 

Gie  me  o’  wit  an’  sense  a lift, 

Then  turn  me,  if  Thou  please,  adrift, 

Thro’  Scotland  wide; 

Wi’  cits  nor  lairds  I wadna  shift. 

In  a’  their  pride  ! ” 

Were  this  the  charter  of  our  state  — 

“ On  pain  of  hell  be  rich  an’  great,” 

Damnation  then  would  be  our  fate, 

Beyond  remead ; 

But,  thanks  to  Heav’n ! that’s  no  the  gate 
We  learn  our  creed:  — 

For  thus  the  royal  mandate  ran, 

When  first  the  human  race  began  — 

“The  social,  friendly,  honest  man, 

Whate’er  he  be, 

’Tis  he  fulfils  great  Nature’s  plan, 

An’  none  but  he ! ” 

O,  mandate  glorious  and  divine ! 

The  ragged  followers  of  the  Nine, 

Poor  thoughtless  devils ! yet  may  shine 
In  glorious  light; 

While  sordid  sons  of  Mammon’s  line 
Are  dark  as  night. 


178  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Tho’  here  they  scrape,  an’  squeeze,  an’  growl, 
Their  worthless,  neivefu’  of  a soul 
May  in  some  future  carcass  howl, 

The  forest  fright; 

Or  in  some  day-detesting  owl 

May  shun  the  light. 

Then  may  Lapraik  and  Burns  arise, 

To  reach  their  native,  kindred  skies, 

And  sing  their  pleasures,  hopes,  an’  joys, 

In  some  mild  sphere, 

Still  closer  knit  in  friendship’s  ties 
Each  passing  year! 


TO  W. 

OCHILTREE,  MAY,  1785. 

I gai’  your  letter,  winsome  Willie; 

Wi’  grateful  heart  I thank  you  brawlie, 
Tho’  I maun  say’t,  I wad  be  silly, 

An’  unco  vain, 

Should  I believe,  my  coaxin  billy, 

Your  flatt’rin  strain 

But  I’se  believe  ye  kindly  meant  it; 

I sud  be  laith  to  think  ye  hinted 
Ironic  satire,  sidelins  sklented, 

On  my  poor  Musie; 

Tho’  in  sic  phraisin  terms  ye’ve  penn’d  it, 
I scarce  excuse  ye. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  179 

My  senses  wad  be  in  a creel, 

Should  I but  dare  a hope  to  speel, 

Wi’  Allan,  or  wi’  Gilbertfield, 

The  braes  o’  fame ; 

Or  Fergusson,  the  writer-chiel, 

A deathless  name. 

(O  Fergusson!  thy  glorious  parts 
111  suited  law’s  dry,  musty  arts! 

My  curse  upon  your  whunstane  hearts, 

Ye  E’nburgh  gentry! 

The  tithe  o’  what  ye  waste  at  cartes 
Wad  stow’d  his  pantry !) 

Yet  when  a tale  comes  i’  my  head, 

Or  lasses  gie  my  heart  a screed, 

As  whyles  they’re  like  to  be  my  dead, 

(O,  sad  disease !) 

I kittle  up  my  rustic  reed,— 

It  gies  me  ease. 

Auld  Coila  now  may  fidge  fu’  fain, 

She’s  gotten  poets  o’  her  ain, 

Chiels  wha  their  chanters  winna  hain, 

But  tune  their  lays 
Till  echoes  a’  resound  again 

Her  weel-sung  praise. 

Nae  poet  thought  her  worth  his  while 
To  set  her  name  in  measur’d  style! 

She  lay  like  some  unkenn’d-of  isle 
Beside  New  Holland, 

Or  whare  wild-meeting  oceans  boil 
Besouth  Magellan. 


180 


BURKS’S  POEMS. 


Ramsay  an’  famous  Fergusson 
Gled  Forth  an’  Tay  a lift  aboon ; 

Yarrow  an’  Tweed,  to  monie  a tune, 
Owre  Scotland  rings ; 
While  Irwin,  Lugar,  Ayr,  an’  Doon, 

Nae  body  sings. 

Th’  Illissus,  Tiber,  Thames,  an’  Seine, 
Glide  sweet  in  monie  a tunefu’  line! 

But,  Willie,  set  your  fit  to  mine, 

An’  cock  your  crest; 

We’ll  gar  our  streams  and  burnies  shine 
Up  wi’  the  best. 

We’ll  sing  auld  Coila’s  plains  an’  fellsr 
Her  moors  red-brown  wi’  heather  bells, 
Her  banks  and  braes,  her  dens  an’  dells, 
Where  glorious  Wallace 
Aft  bure  the  gree,  as  story  tells, 

Frae  Southron  billies. 

At  Wallace’s  name,  what  Scottish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  a spring-tide  flood? 

Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 
By  Wallace’s  side, 

Still  pressing  onward,  red-wat  shod, 

Or  glorious  died. 

O sweet  are  Coila’s  haughs  an’  woods, 
When  lintwhites  chant  amang  the  buds, 
And  j inkin  hares,  in  amorous  whids, 
Their  loves  enjoy, 

While  thro’  the  braes  the  cushat  croods 
Wi’  wailfu’  cry ! 


burns’s  poems. 


181 


Ev’n  winter  bleak  has  charms  to  me, 
When  winds  rave  thro’  the  naked  tree; 
Or  frosts  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 
Are  hoary  gray ; 

Or  blinding  drifts  wild  furious  flee, 
Dark’ning  the  day ! 

O Nature!  a’  thy  shews  an  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms! 
Whether  the  summer  kindly  warms, 

Wi’  life  an’  light, 

Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms, 

The  lang,  dark  night! 

The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her, 

Till  by  himsel  he  learn’d  to  wander, 
Adown  some  trotting  burn’s  meander, 
An’  no  think  lang! 

O,  sweet  to  stray  an’  pensive  ponder 
A heart-felt  sang ! 


The  warly  race  may  drudge  an’  drive, 
Hog-shouther,  jundie,  stretch,  an’  strive, 
Let  me  fair  Nature’s  face  descrive, 

And  I,  wi’  pleasure, 

Shall  let  the  busy,  grumbling  hive 

Bum  owre  their  treasure. 


Fareweel,  “my  rhyme-composing  brither ! w 
We’ve  been  owre  lang  unkenn’d  to  ither; 
Now  let  us  lay  our  heads  thegither, 

In  love  fraternal : 

May  Envy  wallop  in  a tether, 

Black  fiend,  infernal! 

16 


182  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

While  Iiighlandmen  hate  tolls  an’  taxes, 
While  moorlan’  herds  like  guid  fat  braxies, 
While  terra  firma  on  her  axis 
Diurnal  turns, 

Count  on  a friend,  in  faith  an’  practice, 

In  Robert  Burns. 


postscript. 

My  memory’s  no  worth  a preen ; 

I had  amaist  forgotten  clean, 

Ye  bade  me  write  you  what  they  mean 
By  this  New  Light, # 

’Bout  which  our  herds  sae  aft  hae  been 
Maist  like  to  fight. 

In  days  when  mankind  were  but  cal  Ians 
At  grammar^  logic,  and  sic  talents, 

They  took  nae  pains  their  speech  to  balance 
Or  rules  to  gie, 

But  spak  their  thoughts  in  plain,  braid  Lallians, 
Like  you  or  me. 

In  tliae  auld  times,  they  thought  the  moon 
Just  like  a sark,  or  pair  o’  shoon, 

Wore  by  degrees,  till  her  last  roori, 

Gaed  past  their  viewin’; 

An’  shortly  after  she  was  done, 

They  gat  a new  one. 


* New  Light,  a cant  phrase,  in  the  West  of  Scotland,  for  those  relig- 
ious opinions  which  Dr.  Taylor,  of  Norwich,  defended  so  strenuously. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  183 

This  past  for  certain,  undisputed; 

It  ne’er  cam  in  their  heads  to  doubt  it, 

Till  chiels  gat  up  and  wad  confute  it, 

An’  ca’d  it  wrang; 

An’  muckle  din  there  was  about  it, 

Baith  loud  and  lang. 

Some  herds,  weel  learn’d  upo’  the  beuk, 

Wad  threap  auld  folk  the  thing  misteuk , 

For  ’twas  the  auld  moon  turn’d  a neuk, 

An’  out  o’  sight, 

An’  backlins-comin,  to  the  leuk, 

She  grew  mail*  bright. 

This  was  denied,  it  was  affirm’d; 

The  herds  an’  hissles  were  alarm’d; 

The  rev’rend  gray-beards  rav’d  an’  storm’d, 
That  beardless  laddies 
Should  think  they  better  were  inform’d 
Than  their  auld  daddies. 

Frae  less  to  mair  it  gaed  to  sticks ; 

Frae  words  an’  aiths  to  blours  an’  nicks ; 

And  monie  a fallow  gat  his  licks, 

Wi’  hearty  crunt; 

An’  some,  to  learn  them  for  their  tricks, 

Were  hang’d  an’  brunt. 

This  game  was  play’d  in  monie  lands, 

An’  auld  light  caddies  bure  sic  hands, 

That,  faith,  the  youngsters  took  the  sands 
Wi’  nimble  shanks, 

Till  lairds  forbade,  by  strict  commands, 

Sic  bluidy  pranks. 


184  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

But  new-light  herds  gat  sic  a cowe, 

Folk  thought  them  ruin’d  stick  an  stowe, 
Till  now  amaist  on  ev’ry  knowe, 

Ye’ll  find  ane  plac’d; 

An’  some,  their  new-light  fair  avow, 

Just  quite  bare-fac’d. 

Nae  doubt  the  auld-light  flocks  are  bleatin; 
Their  zealous  herds  are  vex’d  an’  sweatin; 
Mysel,  I’ve  even  seen  them  greetin, 

Wi’  girnin  spite, 

To  hear  the  moon  sae  sadly  lied  on, 

By  word  an’  write. 

But  shortly  they  will  cowe  the  Iouns  ; 

Some  auld-light  herds  in  neebor  towns 
Are  mind’t,  in  things  they  ca’  balloons, 

To  tak  a flight, 

An’  stay  ae  month  amang  the  moons, 

An’  see  them  right. 

Guid  observation  they  will  gie  them, 

An’  when  the  auld  moon’s  gaun  to  lea’e  them, 
The  hindmost  shaird,  they’ll  fetch  it  wi’  them, 
Just  i’  their  pouch; 

An’  when  the  new-light  billies  see  them, 

I think  they’ll  crouch  ! 

Sae  ye  observe  that  a’  this  clatter 
Is  naething  but  a “moonshine  matter;” 

But  tho’  dull  prose-folk  Latin  splatter. 

In  logic  tulzie, 

I hope  we  bardies  ken  some  better 
Than  mind  sic  brulzie 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


185 


EPISTLE  TO  J.  R****** 

ENCLOSING  SOME  POEMS. 

O rough,  rude,  ready-witted  R******, 
The  wale  o’  cocks  for  fun  and  drinkin ! 
There’s  monie  godly  folks  are  thinkin, 
Your  dreams*  an’  tricks 
Will  send  you,  Korah-iike,  a sinkin, 
Straight  to  auld  Nick’s. 

Ye  hae  sae  monie  cracks  an’  cants, 

And  in  your  wicked,  drucken  rants, 

Ye  mak  a devil  o’  the  saunts, 

And  fill  them  fou ; 

And  then  their  failings,  flaws,  an’  wants, 
Are  a’  seen  thro’. 


Hypocrisy,  in  mercy  spare  it! 

That  holy  robe,  O dinna  tear  it! 

Spar’t  for  their  sakes  wha  aften  wear  it, 
The  lads  in  black; 

But  your  curst  wit,  when  it  comes  near  it, 
Rives’t  aff  their  back. 


Think,  wicked  sinner,  wha  ye’re  skaithing, 
It’s  just  the  blue-gown  badge  an’  claithing 


• A certain  humorous  dream  of  his  was  then  making'  a noiso  in  the 
country-side. 


16* 


186 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


O’  saunts ; tak  that,  ye  lea’e  them  naething 
To  ken  them  by, 

Frae  ony  unregen’rate  heathen, 

Like  you  or  I. 

I’ve  sent  you  here  some  rhyming  ware, 

A’  that  I bargain’d  for,  an’  mair ; 

Sae,  when  ye  hae  an  hour  to  spare, 

I will  expect 

Your  sang,#  ye’ll  sen’t  wi’  cannie  care, 

And  no  neglect. 

Tho’  faith,  sma’  heart  hae  I to  sing  ! 

My  Muse  dow  scarcely  spread  her  wing’ 
I’ve  play’d  mysel  a bonie  spring, 

An1  danc’d  my  fill ! 

I’d  better  gaen  an’  sair’d  the  king, 

At  Bunker’s  Hill ! 

’Twas  ae  night,  lately,  in  my  fun, 

I gaed  a roving  wi’  the  gun, 

An’  brought  a paitrick  to  the  grun, 

A bonie  hen; 

An’,  as  the  twilight  was  begun, 

Thought  nane  wad  ken. 

The  poor,  wee  thing  was  little  hurt, 

I straikit  it  a wee  for  sport, 

Ne’er  thinkin  they  wad  fash  me  for’t, 

But  deil-may-care ! 

Somebody  tells  the  poacher-court 
The  hale  affair. 


A song  he  had  promised  the  author. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  187 

Some  auld-us’d  hands  had  taen  a note 
That  sic  a hen  had  got  a shot; 

I was  suspected  for  the  plot; 

I scorn’d  to  lie, 

So  gat  the  whissle  o’  my  groat, 

An’  pay’t  the  fee. 

But,  by  my  gun,  o’  guns  the  wale, 

An’  by  my  pouther  an’  my  hail, 

An’  by  my  hen,  an’  by  her  tail, 

I vow  an’  swear! 

The  game  shall  pay,  o’er  moor  an’  dale, 

For  this,  niest  year. 

As  soon’s  the  clockin-time  is  by, 

An’  the  wee  pouts  begin  to  cry, 

L — d,  I’se  hae  sportin  by  an’  by, 

For  my  gowd  guinea, 

Tho’  I should  herd  the  buckskin  kye 
For’t  in  Virginia. 

Trowth,  they  had  muckle  for  to  blame! 

’Twas  neither  broken  wing  nor  limb, 

But  twa-three  draps  about  the  wame, 

Scarce  thro’  the  feathers 
An’  baith  a yellow  George  to  claim, 

An’  thole  their  blethers ! 

It  pits  me  ay  as  mad’s  a hare ; 

So  I can  rhyme  nor  write  nae  mair! 

But  pennyworths  again  is  fair, 

When  time’s  expedient ! 
Meanwhile,  I am,  respected  sir, 

Your  most  obedient 


3=1 


188  BUIINS^  POEMS. 


TO  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

ELLISLAND,  OCTOBER,  21,  1789. 

Wow,  but  your  letter  made  me  vauntie ! 

And  are  ye  hale,  and  weel,  and  cantie? 

I kenn’d  it  still  your  wee  bit  j auntie 
Wad  bring  ye  to: 

Lord  send  ye  ay  as  weel’s  I want  ye, 
And  then  ye’ll  do. 

The  ill-thief  blaw  the  Heron*  south ! 

And  never  drink  be  near  his  drouth! 

He  tald  mysel,  by  word  o’  mouth, 

He’d  tak  my  letter; 

I lippen’d  to  the  chiel  in  trouth, 

And  bade  nae  better. 

But  aiblins  honest  Master  Heron 

Had  at  the  time  some  dainty  fair  one, 

To  ware  his  theologic  care  on, 

And  holy  study ; 

And  tir’d  o’  sauls  to  waste  his  lear  on, 
E’en  tried  the  body. 

But  what  d’ye  think,  my  trusty  her, 

I’m  turn’d  a guager  — peace  be  here ! 

Parnassian  queens,  I fear,  I fear 

Ye’ll  now  disdain  me  ; 


* Mr.  Heron,  author  of  a History  of  Scotland,  and  various  othe! 
works. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  189 

And  then  my  fifty  pounds  a year 
Will  little  gain  me. 

Ye  glaikit,  gleesome,  daintie  damies 
Wha,  by  Castalia’s  wimplin  streamies, 

Lowp,  sing,  and  lave  your  pretty  limbies, 

Ye  ken,  ye  ken 

That  strang  necessity  supreme  is 
’Mang  sons  o’  men. 

I hae  a wife  an’  twa  wee  laddies ; 

They  maun  hae  brose  and  brats  o’  duddies 
Ye  ken  yoursels  my  heart  right  proud  is, 

I need  nae  vaunt, 

But  I’ll  sned  besoms  — thraw  saugh  woodies, 
Before  they  want. 

Lord  help  me  thro’  this  warld  o’  care  1 
I’m  weary,  sick  o’t  late  and  air! 

Not  but  I hae  a richer  share 

Than  monie  ithers : 

But  why  should  ae  man  better  fare, 

And  a’  men  brithers  ? 

Come,  Firm  Resolve,  take  thou  the  van, 

Thou  stalk  o’  carl-hemp  in  man ! 

And  let  us  mind,  faint  heart  ne’er  wan 
A lady-fair; 

Wha  does  the  utmost  that  he  can, 

Will  whyles  do  mair. 

But  to  conclude  my  silly  rhyme, 

(I’m  scant  o’  verse,  and  scant  o’  time,) 

To  make  a happy  fire-side  clime 
To  weans  and  wife ; 


190  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

That’s  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life. 

My  compliments  to  sister  Beckie ; 

And  eke  the  same  to  honest  Lucky, 

I wat  she  is  a dainty  chuckie, 

As  e’er  trod  clay ! 

An’  gratefully,  my  guid  auld  cockie, 

I’m  yours  for  ay. 

Robert  Burns 


TO  COLONEL  DE  PEYSTER. 
DUMFRIES,  179G. 

My  honor’d  Colonel,  deep  I feel 
Your  int’rest  in  the  Poet’s  weal; 

Ah!  how  sma’  heart  hae  I to  speel 
The  steep  Parnassus, 
Surrounded  thus  by  bolus  pill, 

And  potion  glasses. 

O,  what  a cantie  world  were  it, 

Would  pain,  and  care,  and  sickness  spare  it ; 
And  fortune  favor  worth  and  merit, 

As  they  deserve: 

(And  ay  a rowth,  roast-beef  and  claret ; 

Syne  wha  wad  starve  ?) 

Dame  Life,  tho’  fiction  out  may  trick  her, 
And  in  paste  gems  and  fripp’ry  deck  her; 
Oh!  flick’ring,  feeble,  and  unsicker 
I’ve  found  her  still,  . 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


191 


Ay  wav’ring  like  the  willow  wicker, 
’Tween  good  and  ill. 

Then  that  curst  carmagnole,  auld  Satan, 
Watches,  like  baudrans  by  a rattan, 

Our  sinfu’  saul  to  get  a claut  on, 

Wi’  felon  ire ; 

Syne,  whip ! his  tail  ye’ll  ne’er  cast  saut  on, 
He’s  aff  like  fire. 


Ah,  Nick!  ah,  Nick!  it  is  na  fair, 
First  showing  us  the  tempting  ware, 
Bright  wines  and  bonie  lasses  rare, 

To  put  us  daft; 

Syne  weave,  unseen,  thy  spider  snare, 
O’  hell’s  damn’d  waft. 


Poor  man,  the  die,  aft  bizzies  by, 

And  aft  as  chance  he  comes  thee  nigh, 
Thy  auld  damn’d  elbow  yeuks  wi’  joy, 
And  hellish  pleasure ; 
Already  in  thy  fancy’s  eye 

Thy  sicker  treasure. 

Soon,  heels  o’er  gowdie ! in  he  gangs, 
And,  like  a sheep-head  on  a tangs, 

Thy  girning  laugh  enjoys  his  pangs 
And  murd’ring  wrestle, 

As,  dangling  in  the  wind,  he  hangs, 

A gibbet’s  tassel. 


But,  lest  you  think  I am  uncivil, 

To  plague  you  with  this  draunting  drivel, 


192  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Abjuring  a’  intentions  evil, 

I quat  my  pen: 

The  Lord  preserve  us  frae  the  devil ! 
Amen!  Amen! 


LETTER 

TO  J S T T GL NC — R. 

Auld  comrade  dear,  and  brither  sinner, 
How’s  a’  the  folk  about  G1 — nc — r? 

How  do  you  this  blae  eastlin  wind, 

That’s  like  to  blaw  a body  blind  P 
For  me,  my  faculties  are  frozen, 

My  dearest  member  nearly  dozen’d ! 

I’ve  sent  you  here  my  Johnny  Simson, 
Twa  sage  philosophers  to  glimpse  on  ; 
Smith,  wi’  his  sympathetic  feeling, 

An’  Reid  to  common  sense  appealing. 
Philosophers  have  fought  an’  wrangled, 
And  meikle  Greek  an’  Latin  mangled, 

Till  wi’  their  logic-jargon  tir’d, 

An’  in  the  depth  of  science  mir’d, 

To  common  sense  they  now  appeal, 

What  wives  and  wabsters  see  an’  feel : 
But  hark  ye,  friend,  I charge  you  strictly. 
Peruse  them  an’  return  them  quickly; 

For  now  I’m  grown  sae  cursed  douce, 

I pray  an’  ponder  butt  the  house, 

My  shins,  my  lane,  I there  sit  roastin, 
Perusing  Bunyan,  Brown,  and  Boston* 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  193 

Till  by  an’  by,  if  I haud  on, 

I’ll  grunt  a real  Gospel  groan ; 

Already  I begin  to  try  it, 

To  cast  my  een  up  like  a pyet, 

When  by  the  gun  she  tumbles  o’er, 

Flutt’ring  an’  gasping  in  her  gore : 

Sae  shortly  you  shall  see  me  bright, 

A burning  an’  a shining  light. 

My  heart-warm  love  to  guid  auld  Glen, 

The  ace  an’  wale  of  honest  men  ; 

When  bending  down  with  auld  gray  hairs, 
Beneath  the  load  of  years  and  cares, 

May  he  who  made  him  still  support  him, 

An’  views  beyond  the  grave  comfort  him. 

His  worthy  fam’ly  far  and  near, 

God  bless  them  a’  wi’  grace  and  gear. 

My  auld  school-fellow,  Preacher  Willie, 

The  manly  tar,  my  mason  Billie, 

An’  Auchenbay,  I wish  him  joy ; 

If  he’s  a parent,  lass  or  boy, 

May  he  be  dad,  and  Meg  the  mither, 

Just  five-an’-forty  years  thegither ! 

An’  no  forgetting  wabster  Charlie, 

I’m  tauld  he  offers  very  fairly. 

An’,  L — d,  remember  singing  Sannock, 

Wi’  hale  breeks,  saxpence,  an’  a bannock ; 

And  next,  my  auld  acquaintance,  Nancy, 

Since  she  is  fitted  to  her  fancy ; 

An’  her  kind  stars  hae  airted  till  her 
A guid  chiel  wi’  a pickle  siller. 

My  kindest,  best  respects  I sen’  it, 

To  cousin  Kate,  an’  sister  Janet ; 

Tell  them  frae  me,  wi’  chiels  be  cautious, 

17 


194  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

For  faith,  they’ll  aiblins  fin’  them  fashious ; 

To  grant  a heart  is  fairly  civil, 

But  to  grant  a maidenhead’s  the  devil ! 

An’  lastly,  Jamie,  for  yoursel, 

May  guardian  angels  tak  a spell, 

An’  steer  you  seven  miles  south  o’  hell : 

But  first,  before  you  see  heav’n’s  glory, 

May  ye  get  monie  a merry  story, 

Monie  a laugh  and  monie  a drink, 

An’  ay  enough  o’  needfu’  clink. 

Now  fare  ye  weel,  an’  joy  be  wi’  you ; 
For  my  sake  this  I beg  it  o’  you, 

Assist  poor  Simson  a’  ye  can, 

Ye’ll  fin’  him  just  an  honest  man: 

Sae  I conclude,  and  quat  my  chanter, 

Your’s,  saint  or  sinner, 

Rob  the  Ranter 


TO  MR.  MITCHELL, 

COLLECTOR  OF  EXCISE,  DUMFRIES,  1796. 

Friend  of  the  Poet,  tried  and  leal, 

Wha,  wanting  thee,  might  beg  or  steal ; 
Alake,  alake,  the  meikle  deil 

Wi’  a’  his  witches 
Are  at  it,  skelpin!  jig  an’  reel, 

% In  my  poor  pouches. 

I modestly,  fu’  fain  wad  hint  it, 

That  one  pound  one,  I sairly  want  it; 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  195 

If  wi’  the  Lizzie  down  ye  send  it, 

It  would  be  kind; 

And  while  my  heart  wi’  life-blood  dunted, 

I’d  bear’t  in  mind. 

So  may  the  auld  year  gang  out  moaning, 

To  see  the  new  come  laden,  groaning, 

Wi’  double  plenty,  o’er  the  loaning, 

To  thee  and  thine ; 

Domestic  peace  and  comforts  crowning 
The  hail  design. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye’ve  heard  this  while  how  I’ve  been  lickct, 
And  by  fell  death  was  nearly  nicket; 
Grim  loun!  he  gat  me  by  the  fecket, 

And  sair  me  sheuk ; 

But,  by  good  luck,  I lap  a wicket, 

And  turn’d  a neuk. 

But,  by  that  health,  I’ve  got  a share  o’t, 
And  by  that  life,  I’m  promis’d  mair  o’t, 
My  hale  and  weel  I’ll  take  a care  o’t, 

A tender  way ; 

Then  fare  weel  folly,  hide  an’  hair  o't; 

For  ance  and  aye. 


196  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


TO  THE  GUIDWIFE  OF  WAUCIIOPE-IIOUSE. 

IN  ANSWER  TO  AN  EPISTLE  WHICH  SHE  HAD  SENT 
THE  AUTHOR. 

I. 

Guidwife : — 

I mind  it  weel  in  early  date, 

When  I was  beardless,  young,  and  blate, 

And  first  could  thresh  the  barn ; 

Or  haud  a yokin  at  the  pleugh; 

An’  tho’  for  foughten  sair  enough, 

Yet  unco  proud  to  learn: 

When  first  amang  the  yellow  corn 
A man  I reckon’d  was, 

And  wi’  the  lave  ilk  merry  morn ; 

Could  rank  my  rig  and  lass, 

Still  shearing,  and  clearing 
The  tither  stooked  raw, 

Wi’  claivers,  an’  haivers, 

Wearing  the  day  awa. 

ii. 

Ev’n  then,  a wish,  I mind  it’s  pow’r, 

A wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 
Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast, 

That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland’s  sake, 

Some  usefu’  plan  or  book  could  make, 

Or  sing  a sang  at  least. 

The  rough  burr-thistle,  spreading  wide 
Amang  the  bearded  bear, 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  197 

I turn’d  the  weeder-clips  aside, 

An’  spar’d  the  symbol  dear; 

No  nation,  no  station, 

My  envy  e’er  could  raise; 

A Scot  still,  but  blot  still, 

I knew  nae  higher  praise. 

hi. 

But  still  the  elements  o’  sang, 

In  formless  jumble,  right  an’  wrang, 

Wild  floated  in  my  brain; 

Till  on  that  har’st  I said  before, 

My  partner  in  the  merry  core, 

She  rous’d  the  forming  strain! 

I see  her  yet,  the  sonsie  quean, 

That  lighted  up  her  jingle, 

Her  witching  smile,  her  pauky  een, 

That  gar’t  my  heart-strings  tingle;  % 

I fir’d,  inspir’d, 

At  ev’ry  kindling  keek, 

But  bashing,  and  dashing, 

I feared  ay  to  speak. 

IV. 

Hail  to  the  set!  ilk  guid  chiel  says, 

Wi’  merry  dance  in  winter  days, 

An’  we  to  share  in  common; 

The  gust  o’  joy,  the  balm  o’  wo, 

The  saul  o’  life,  the  heav’n  below, 

Is  rapture-giving  woman. 

Ye  surly  sumphs,  who  hate  the  name, 

Be  mindfu’  o’  your  mither ; 

She,  honest  woman,  may  think  shame 
That  ye’re  connected  with  her  * 

17* 


198  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Ye’re  wae  men,  ye’re  nae  men, 
That  slight  the  lovely  dears; 
To  shame  ye,  disclaim  ye, 

Ilk  honest  birkie  swears. 


For  you,  na  bred  to  barn  or  byre, 

Wha  sweetly  tune  the  Scottish  lyre, 

Thanks  to  you  for  your  line. 

The  marled  plaid  ye  kindly  spare 
By  me  should  gratefully  be  ware, 

’Twad  please  me  to  the  Nine. 

I’d  be  mair  vauntie  o’  my  hap, 

Douse  hinging  o’er  my  curple, 

Than  onie  ermine  ever  lap, 

Or  proud  imperial  purple. 

Fareweel,  then,  lang  hale  then, 

An’  plenty  be  your  fa’. 

May  losses  and  crosses 
Ne’er  at  your  hallan  ca’. 

March , 1787.  R.  Burns. 



TO  J.  RANKEN, 

ON  HIS  WRITING  TO  THE  AUTHOR  THAT  A GIRL  WAS 
WITH  CHILD  BY  HIM. 

I am  a keeper  of  the  law 
In  some  sma’  points,  altho’  not  a’; 

Some  people  tell  me  gin  I fa’, 

Ae  way  or  ither, 

The  breaking  of  ae  point,  tho’  sma’, 

Breaks  a’  thegither. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  199 

I liae  been  in  for’t  ance  or  twice, 

And  winna  say  o’er  far  for  thrice, 

Yet  never  met  with  that  surprise 
That  broke  my  rest ; 

But  now  a rumor’s  like  to  rise, 

A whaup’s  i’  the  nest. 


ADDRESS 

TO  AN  ILLEGITIMATE  CHILD. 

Tiiou’s  welcome,  wean,  mishanter  fa’  me, 
If  aught  of  thee,  or  of  thy  mammy, 

Shall  ever  danton  me,  or  awe  me, 

My  sweet  wee  lady, 

Or  if  I blush  when  thou  shalt  ca’  me 
Tit-ta  or  daddy. 

Wee  image  of  my  bonie  Betty, 

I fatherly  will  kiss  an’  daut  thee, 

As  dear  an’  near  my  heart  I set  thee, 

Wi’  as  guid  will, 

As  a’  the  priests  had  seen  me  get  thee, 
That’s  out  o’  h— 11. 

What  tho’  they  ca’  me  fornicator, 

An’  tease  my  name  in  kintry-clatter ; 

The  mair  they  tauk  I’m  kent  the  better; 
E’en  let  them  clash; 

An  auld  wife’s  tongue’s  a feckless  matter 
To  gie  ane  fash. 


200  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Sweet  fruit  o’  monie  a merry  dint, 

My  funny  tiel  is  now  a’  tint, 

Sin’  thou  came  to  the  warl  asklent, 

Which  fools  may  scoff  at; 
In  my  last  plack  thy  part’s  be  in’t  — 
The  better  half  o’t. 

An’  if  thou  be  what  I wad  hae  thee, 
An’  tak  the  counsel  I shall  gie  thee, 

A lovin  father  I’ll  be  to  thee, 

If  thou  be  spar’d ; 

Thro’  a’  thy  childish  years  I’ll  e’e  thee, 
An’  think’t  weel  war’d. 

*% 

Gude  grant  that  thou  may  ay  inherit 
Thy  mither’s  person,  grace,  an’  merit, 
An’  thy  poor,  worthless  daddy’s  spirit, 
Without  his  failins ; 

’Twill  please  me  mair  to  hear  an’  see’t, 
Than  stocket  mailins. 


TO  A TAILOR, 

IN  ANSWER  TO  AN  EPISTLE  WHICH  HE  HAD  SENT  THB 
AUTHOR. 

What  ails  ye  now,  ye  lousie  b — h, 

To  thresh  my  back  at  sic  a pitch  ? 

Losh  man!  hae  mercy  wi’  your  natch, 

Your  bodkin’s  bauld ; 

I did  na  suffer  half  sae  much 
Frae  daddy  Auld. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  201 

What  tho’  at  times,  when  I grow  crouse, 

I gie  their  wames  a random  pouse, 

Is  that  enough  for  you  to  souse 
Your  servant  sae  ? 

Gae,  mind  your  seam,  ye  prick  the  louse. 

An’  jag  the  flae. 

King  David,  o’  poetic  brief, 

Wrought  ’mang  the  lasses  sic  mischief 
As  fill’d  his  after  life  wi’  grief 
An’  bloody  rants ; 

An’  yet  he’s  rank’d  amang  the  chief 
O’  lang  syne  saunts. 

And,  may  be,  Tam,  for  a’  my  cants, 

My  wicked  rhymes,  an’  drucken  rants ; 

I’ll  gie  auld  cloven  Clooty’s  haunts 
An  unco  slip  yet ; 

An’  snugly  sit  amang  the  saunts, 

At  Davie’s  hip  yet. 

But  fegs,  the  session  says  I maun 
Gae  fa’  upo’  anither  plan, 

Than  garren  lasses  cowp  the  cran, 

Clean  heels  owre  body, 

And  sairly  thole  their  mithers’  ban  / 

Afore  the  howdy. 

This  leads  me  on  to  tell,  for  sport 
How  I did  with  the  session  sort  — 

Auld  Clinkum  at  the  inner  port 

Cried  three  times,  “Robin! 

Come  hither,  lad,  an’  answer  for’t, 

Ye’re  blam’d  for  jobbin.” 


202  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Wi’  pinch  I put  a Sunday’s  face  on, 

An’  snoov’d  awa’  before  the  session; 

I made  an  open,  fair  confession, 

I scorn’d  to  lie ; 

An’  syne  Mess  John,  beyond  expression, 
Fell  foul  o’  me. 

A fornicator  loun  he  call’d  me, 

An’  said  my  faut  frae  bliss  expell’d  me ; 
I own’d  the  tale  was  true  he  tell’d  me, 
“But  what  the  matter?” 
Quo’  I,  “I  fear,  unless  ye  geld  me, 

I’ll  ne’er  be  better.” 

“ Geld  you  ! ” quo’  he,  “ and  whatfore  no, 
If  that  your  right  hand,  leg,  or  toe, 
Should  ever  prove  your  spir’tual  foe, 

You  should  remember 
To  cut  it  aff,  and  whatfore  no 

Your  dearest  member.” 

“Na,  na,”  quo’  I,  “I’m  no  for  that: 
Gelding’s  nae  better  than  ’tis  ca’t. 

I’d  rather  suffer  for  my  faut, 

A hearty  flewit, 

As  sair  owre  hip  as  ye  can  draw’t! 

Tho’  I should  rue  it. 

“Or  gin  ye  like  to  end  the  bother, 

To  please  us  a’  I’ve  just  ae  ither  ; 

When  next  wi’  yon  lass  I forgather, 
Whate’er  betide  it, 

I’ll  frankly  gie  her’t  a’  thegither, 

An’  let  her  guide  it.” 


BURNS  S POEMS. 

But,  sir,  this  pleas’d  them  warst  ava, 
An’  therefore,  Tam,  when  that  I saw, 
I said  “ Guid  night,”  and  cam  awa’, 
An’  left  the  session  ; 

I saw  they  were  resolved  a’ 

On  my  oppression. 


203 


TO  MR.  WILLIAM  TYTLER, 

WITH  A PORTRAIT  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

Revered  defender  of  beauteous  Stuart, 

Of  Stuart,  a name  once  respected, 

A name,  which  to  love  was  the  mark  of  a true  heart, 
But  now  ’tis  despised  and  neglected. 

Tho’  something  like  moisture  conglobes  in  my  eye, 
Let  no  one  misdeem  me  disloyal ; 

A poor,  friendless  wand’rer  may  well  claim  a sigh, 
Still  more,  if  that  wand’rer  were  royal. 

My  fathers  that  name  have  rever’d  on  a throne ; 

My  fathers  have  fallen  to  right  it; 

Those  fathers  would  spurn  their  degenerate  son, 

That  name  should  he  scoffingly  slight  it. 


Still  in  prayers  for  King  George  I most  heartily  join, 
The  Queen,  and  the  rest  of  the  gentry, 

Be  they  wise,  be  they  foolish,  is  nothing  of  mine ; 
Their  title’s  avow’d  by  my  country. 


204  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

But  why  of  that  epocha  make  such  a fuss  P 

############# 

#########**## 

But  loyalty,  truce  I we’re  on  dangerous  ground  ; 
Who  knows  how  the  fashions  may  alter  ? 

The  doctrine  to-day  that  is  loyalty  sound, 
To-morrow  may  bring  us  a halter! 

I send  you  a trifle,  a head  of  a bard, 

A trifle  scarce  worthy  your  care  ; 

But  accept  it,  good  sir,  as  a mark  of  regard, 
Sincere  as  a saint’s  dying  prayer. 

Now  life’s  chilly  evening  dim  shades  on  your  eye, 
And  ushers  the  long,  dreary  night; 

But  you,  like  the  star  that  athwart  gilds  the  sky, 
Your  course  to  the  latest  is  bright. 


EPISTLE 

TO  R.  GRAHAM,  ESQ.,  OF  FINTRA. 

When  Nature  her  great  masterpiece  design’d, 
And  fram’d  her  last,  best  work,  the  human  mind. 
Her  eye  intent  on  all  the  mazy  plan, 

She  form’d  of  various  parts  the  various  man. 

Then  first  she  calls  the  useful  many  forth ; 
Plain,  plodding  industry,  and  sober  worth ; 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


205 


Thence  peasants,  farmers,  native  sons  of  earth,  * 

And  merchandise,  whole  genus  take  their  birth; 

Each  prudent  cit  a warm  existence  finds, 

And  all  mechanics’  many  apron’d  kinds. 

Some  other  rarer  sorts  are  wanted  yet, 

The  lead  and  buoy  are  needful  to  the  net; 

The  caput  mortuum  of  gross  desires 

Makes  a material  for  mere  knights  and  squires; 

The  martial  phosphorus  is  taught  to  flow, 

She  kneads  the  lumpish,  philosophic  dough, 

Then  marks  th’  unyielding  mass  with  grave  designs, 
Law,  physics,  politics,  and  deep  divines : 

Last,  she  sublimes  th’  Aurora  of  the  poles, 

The  flashing  elements  of  female  souls. 

The  order’d  system  fair  before  her  stood, 

Nature,  well-pleas’d,  pronounc’d  it  very  good ; 

But,  ere  she  gave  creating  labor  o’er, 

Half  jest,  she  tried  one  curious  labor  more, 

Some  spumy,  fiery,  ignis  fatuus  matter; 

Such  as  the  slightest  breath  of  air  might  scatter; 

With  arch  alacrity  and  conscious  glee, 

(Nature  may  have  her  whim  as  well  as  we, 

Her  Hogarth-art  perhaps  she  meant  to  show  it,) 

She  forms  the  thing,  and  christens  it  — a poet. 
Creative,  though  oft  the  prey  of  care  and  sorrow, 
When  blest  to-day  unmindful  of  to-morrow. 

A being  form’d  to  amuse  his  graver  friends, 

Admir’d  and  prais’d  — and  there  the  homage  ends; 

A mortal  quite  unfit  for  fortune’s  strife, 

Yet  oft  the  sport  of  all  the  ills  of  life; 

Prone  to  enjoy  each  pleasure  riches  give, 

Yet  haply  wanting  wherewithal  to  live; 

Longing  to  wipe  each  tear,  to  heal  each  groan, 

Yet  frequent  all  unheeded  in  his  own. 

18 


206 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


* But  honest  Nature  is  not  quite  a Turk, 

She  laugh’d  at  first,  then  felt  for  her  poor  work, 
Pitying  the  propless  climber  of  mankind, 

She  cast  about  a standard-tree  to  find ; 

And,  to  support  his  helpless  woodbine  state, 

Attached  him  to  the  generous,  truly  great, 

A title,  and  the  only  one  I claim, 

To  lay  strong  hold  for  help  on  bounteous  Graham. 

Pity  the  tuneful  Muses’  hapless  train, 

Weak,  timid  landsmen  on  life’s  stormy  main ! 

Their  hearts  no  selfish,  stern,  absorbent  stuff*, 

That  neither  gives  — though  humbly  takes  enough: 
The  little  fate  allows,  they  share  as  soon, 

Unlike  sage,  proverb’d  Wisdom’s  hard-wrung  boon. 
The  world  were  bless’d  did  bliss  on  them  depend — * 
Ah ! that  “ the  friendly  e’er  should  want  a friend ! ” 
Let  Prudence  number  o’er  each  sturdy  son, 

Who  life  and  wisdom  at  one  race  begun, 

Who  feel  by  reason,  and  who  give  by  rule, 

(Instinct’s  a brute,  and  sentiment  a fool !) 

Who  make  poor  will  do  wait  upon  I should  — 

We  own  they’re  prudent,  but  who  feels  they’re  good? 
Ye  wise  once,  hence!  ye  hurt  the  social  eye! 

God’s  image  rudely  etch’d  on  base  alloy ! 

But  come  ye  who  the  godlike  pleasure  know-— ^ 
Heaven’s  attribute  distinguish’d  — to  bestow  ! 

Whose  arms  of  love  would  grasp  the  human  race ; 
Come  thou  who  giv’st  with  all  a courtier’s  grace ; 
Friend  of  my  life,  true  patron  of  my  rhymes ! 

Prop  of  my  dearest  hope  for  future  times. 

Why  shrinks  my  soul  half-blushing,  half-afraid, 
Backward,  abashed  to  ask  thy  friendly  aid? 

I know  my  need,  I know  thy  giving  hand, 

I crave  thy  friendship  at  thy  kind  command; 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


207 


But  there  are  such  who  court  the  tuneful  Nine  — 
Heavens ! should  the  branded  character  be  mine ! 
Whose  verse  in  manhood’s  pride  sublimely  flows ; 

Yet  vilest  reptiles  in  their  begging  prose. 

Mark,  how  their  lofty,  independent  spirit 
Soars  on  the  spurning  wing  of  injur’d  merit! 

Seek  not  the  proofs  in  private  life  to  find ! 

Pity  the  best  of  words  should  be  but  wind ! 

So  to  heaven’s  gates  the  lark’s  shrill  song  ascends, 
But  grovelling  on  the  earth  the  carol  ends. 

In  all  the  clamorous  cry  of  starving  want, 

They  dun  benevolence  with  shameful  front ; 

Oblige  them,  patronize  their  tinsel  lays, 

They  persecute  you  all  your  future  days ! 

Ere  my  poor  soul  such  deep  damnation  stain, 

My  horny  fist  assume  the  plough  again ; 

The  piebald  jacket  let  me  patch  once  more ; 

On  eighteen-pence  a week  I’ve  lived  before. 

Though,  thanks  to  heaven!  I dare  even  that  last  shift ; 
I trust,  meantime,  my  boon  is  in  thy  gift ; 

That  placed  by  thee  upon  the  wished-for  height, 
Where,  Man  and  Nature  fairer  in  her  sight, 

My  Muse  may  imp  her  wing  or  some  sublimer  flight 


TO  THE  SAME. 

Late  crippled  of  an  arm,  and  now  a leg, 
About  to  beg  a pass  for  leave  to  beg; 
Dull,  listless,  teas’d,  dejected  and  deprest, 
'Nature  is  adverse  to  a cripple’s  rest,) 


208  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Will  gen’rous  Graham  list  his  Poet’s  wail? 

(It  soothes  poor  Misery  heark’ning  to  her  tale,) 
And  hear  him  curse  the  light  he  first  survey’d, 
And  doubly  curse  the  luckless,  rhyming  trade! 

Thou,  Nature,  partial  Nature,  I arraign; 

Of  thy  caprice  maternal  I complain. 

The  lion  and  the  bull  thy  care  have  found  ; 

One  shakes  the  forest,  and  one  spurns  the  ground: 
Thou  gi’est  the  ass  his  hide,  the  snail  his  shell, 
Th’  envenomed  wasp,  victorious,  guards  his  cell. 
.Thy  minions,  kings  defend,  control,  devour, 

In  all  th’  omnipotence  of  rule  and  power. 

Foxes  and  statesmen,  subtle  wiles  insure ; 

The  cit  and  polecat  stink  and  are  secure. 

Toads  with  their  poison,  doctors  with  their  drug, 
The  priest  and  hedgehog  in  their  robes  are  snug; 
Ev’n  silly  woman  has  her  warlike  arts, 

Her  tongue  and  eyes,  her  dreaded  spear  and  darts. 

But  oh ! thou  bitter  step-mother,  and  hard, 

To  thy  poor,  fenceless,  naked  child  — the  Bard! 

A thing  unteachable  in  the  world’s  skill, 

And  half  an  idiot,  too,  more  helpless  still. 

No  heels  to  bear  him  from  the  op’ning  dun ; 

No  claws  to  dig,  his  hated  sight  to  shun; 

No  horns,  but  those  by  luckless  Hymen  worn, 

And  those,  alas ! not  Amalthea’s  horn : 

No  nerves  olfact’ry,  Mammon’s  trusty  cur, 

Clad  in  rich  dulness,  comfortable  fur, 

In  naked  feeling,  and  in  aching  pride, 

He  bears  th’  unbroken  blast  from  ev’ry  side ; 
Vampyre  booksellers  drain  him  to  the  heart, 

And  scorpion  critics  cureless  venom  dart. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  209 

Critics ! appall’d  I venture  on  the  name, 

Those  cut-throat  bandits  in  the  paths  of  fame: 

Bloody  dissectors,  worse  than  ten  Monroes ; 

He  hacks  to  teach,  they  mangle  to  expose. 

llis  heart  by  causeless,  wanton  malice  wrung, 

By  blockheads’  daring  into  madness  stung; 

His  well-won  bays,  than  life  itself  more  dear, 

By  miscreants  torn,  who  ne’er  one  sprig  must  wear. 
Foil’d,  bleeding,  tortur’d  in  th’  unequal  strife, 

The  hapless  poet  flounders  on  thro’  life, 

Till  fled  each  hope  that  once  his  bosom  fir’d, 

And  fled  each  Muse  that  glorious  once  inspir’d, 

Low  sunk  in  squallid,  unprotected  age, 

Dead,  ev’n  resentment  for  his  injur’d  page, 

He  heeds  or  feels  no  more  the  ruthless  critic’s  rage ! 

So,  by  some  hedge,  the  gen’rous  steed  deceas’d, 
For  half-starv’d,  snarling  curs  a dainty  feast 
By  toil  and  famine  wore  to  skin  and  bone, 

Lies  senseless  of  each  tuggin  bitch’s  son. 

O,  Dulness!  portion  of  the  truly  blest; 

Calm,  shelter’d  haven  of  eternal  rest! 

Thy  sons  ne’er  madden  in  the  fierce  extremes 
Of  Fortune’s  polar  frost,  or  torrid  beams 
If  mantling  high  she  fills  the  golden  cup 
With  sober,  selfish  ease  they  sip  it  up ; 

Conscious  the  bounteous  meed  they  well  deserve, 
They  only  wonder  “ some  folks  ” do  not  starve. 

The  grave  sage  hern  thus  easy  picks  his  frog, 

And  thinks  the  mallard  a sad,  worthless  dog. 

When  disappointment  snaps  the  clue  of  hope, 

And  thro’  disastrous  night  they  darkling  grope, 

18* 


===== — - ~ 

210  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

With  deaf  endurance  sluggishly  they  bear, 

And  just  conclude  that  “fools  are  Fortune’s  care.” 
So,  heavy,  passive  to  the  tempest’s  shocks, 

Strong  on  the  sign-post  stands  the  stupid  ox. 

Not  so  the  idle  Muses’  mad-cap  train, 

Not  such  the  workings  of  their  moon-struck  brain; 
Tn  equanimity  they  never  dwell, 

By  turns  in  soaring  heav’n  or  vaulted  hell. 

I dread  thee,  Fate,  relentless  and  severe, 

With  all  a poet’s,  husband’s,  father’s  fear ! 

Already  one  strong-hold  of  hope  is  lost,  — 
Glencairn,  the  truly  noble,  lies  in  dust ; 

(Fled,  like  the  sun  eclips’d  as  noon  appears, 

And  left  us  darkling  in  a world  of  tears  ;) 

O!  hear  my  ardent,  grateful,  selfish  prayer! 
Fintra,  my  other  stay,  long  bless  and  spare ! 

Thro’  a long  life  his  hopes  and  wishes  crown ; 

And  bright  in  cloudless  skies  his  sun  go  down! 
May  bliss  domestic  smooth  his  private  path; 

Give  energy  to  life,  and  soothe  his  latest  breath, 
With  many  a filial  tear  circling  the  bed  of  death 


TO  THE  SAME, 

ON  RECEIVING  A FAVOR. 

I call  no  goddess  to  inspire  my  strains, 

A fabled  Muse  may  suit  a bard  that  feigns 
Friend  of  my  life!  my  ardent  spirit  burns, 
And  all  the  tribute  of  my  heart  returns, 

— 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  2n 

For  boons  accorded,  goodness  ever  new, 

The  gift  still  dearer,  as  the  giver  you. 

Thou  orb  of  day ! thou  other  paler  light ! 

And  all  ye  many  sparkling  stars  of  night ; 

If  aught  that  giver  from  my  mind  efface ; 

If  I that  giver’s  bounty  e’er  disgrace ; 

Then  roll  to  me,  along  your  wand’ring  spheres, 
Only  to  number  out  a villain’s  years ! 


TO  A GENTLEMAN 

WHOM  THE  AUTHOR  HAD  OFFENDED. 

The  friend  whom  wild  from  wisdom’s  way 
The  fumes  of  wine  infuriate  send; 

(Nor  moony  madness  more  astray;) 

Who  but  deplores  that  hapless  friend? 

Mine  was  the  insensate,  frenzied  part; 

Ah!  why  should  I such  scenes  outlive? 
Scenes  so  abhorrent  to  my  heart! 

’Tis  thine  to  pity  and  forgive. 


212 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


TO  A GENTLEMAN 

WHO  HAD  SENT  HIM  A NEWSPAPER,  AND  OFFERED  TO 
CONTINUE  IT  FREE  OF  EXPENSE. 

Kind  sir,  I’ve  read  yoiy:  paper  through, 

And  faith,  to  me,  ’twas  really  new  ! 

How  guess’d  ye,  sir,  what  maist  I wanted  ? 

This  monie  a day  I’ve  grain’d  and  gaunted, 

To  ken  what  French  mischief  was  brewin  ; 

Or  what  the  drumblie  Dutch  were  doin ; 

That  vile  doup-skelper,  Emperor  Joseph, 

If  Venus  yet  had  got  his  nose  off; 

Or  how  the  collieshangie  works 
Atween  the  Russians  and  the  Turks ; 

Or  if  the  Swede,  before  he  halt, 

Would  play  anither  Charles  the  Twalt ; 

If  Denmark,  any  body  spak  o’t ; 

Or  Poland,  wha  had  now  the  tack  o’t; 

How  cut-throat  Prussian  blades  were  hingin, 

How  libbet  Italy  was  singin ; 

If  Spaniard,  Portuguese,  or  Swiss, 

Were  say  in  or  takin  aught  amiss; 

Or  how  our  merry  lads  at  hame 
In  Britain’s  court  kept  up  the  game ; 

How  royal  George,  the  Lord  leuk  o’er  him, 

Was  managing  St.  Stephen’s  quorum  ; 

If  sleekit  Chatham  Will  was  livin, 

Or  glaikit  Charlie  got  his  nieve  in; 

How  daddie  Burke  the  plea  was  cookin, 

If  Warren  Hastings’  neck  was  yeukin ; 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


213 


How  cesses,  stents,  and  fees  were  rax’d, 
Or  if  bare  a — ses  yet  were  tax’d ; 

The  news  o’  princes,  dukes,  and  earls, 
Pimps,  sharpers,  bawds,  and  opera-girls ; 
If  that  daft  buckie,  Geordie  Wales, 

Was  threshing  still  at  hissies’  tails, 

Or  if  he  has  grown  oughtlins  douser, 
And  no  a perfect  kintra  cooser ; — 

A’  this  and  mair  I never  heard  of, 

An’  but  for  you  I might  despair’d  of: 

So  gratefu’,  back  your  news  I send  you, 
And  pray  a’  guid  things  may  attend  you. 

Ell  isla  nd,  1790. 


SKETCH, 

TO  MRS  DUNLOP,  ON  A NEW  YEAR’S  DA*. 

This  day,  Time  winds  the  exhausted  chain, 
To  run  the  twelvemonth’s  length  again; 

I see  the  auld  bauld-pated  fellow. 

With  ardent  eyes,  complexion  sallow, 

Ajust  the  unimpair’d  machine, 

To  wheel  the  equal,  dull  routine. 

The  absent  lover,  minor  heir, 

In  vain  assail  him  with  their  prayer; 

Deaf  as  my  friend,  he  sees  them  press, 

Nor  makes  the  hour  one  moment  less. 

Will  you  (the  Major’s  with  the  hounds, 

The  happy  tenants  share  his  rounds ; 

Coila’s  fair  Rachel’s  care  to-day, 

And  blooming  Keith’s  engaged  with  Gray) 


214 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


From  housewife  cares  a minute  borrow  — 
That  grandchild’s  cap  will  do  to-morrow  — 
And  join  with  me  a moralizing, 

This  day’s  propitious  to  be  wise  in. 

First,  what  did  yesternight  deliver? 
“Another  year  is  gone  for  ever.” 

And  what  is  this  day’s  strong  suggestion? 
“ The  passing  moment’s  all  we  rest  on ! ” 
Rest  on  — for  what  do  we  hear? 

Or  why  regard  the  passing  year  ? 

Will  time,  amus’d  with  proverb’d  lore, 

Add  to  our  date  one  minute  more? 

A few  days  may  — a few  years  must  — 
Repose  us  in  the  silent  dust. 

Then  is  it  wise  to  damp  our  bliss? 

Yes  — all  such  reasonings  are  amiss  ! 

The  voice  of  Nature  loudly  cries, 

And  many  a message  from  the  skies, 

That  something  in  us  never  dies : 

That  on  this  frail,  uncertain  state, 

Ilang  matters  of  eternal  weight; 

That  future  life,  in  worlds  unknown, 

Must  take  its  hue  from  this  alone; 

Whether  as  heavenly  glory  bright, 

Or  dark  as  misery’s  woful  night. — 

Since  then,  my  honor’d,  first  of  friends, 

On  this  poor  being  all  depends ; 

Let  us  th’  important  now  employ, 

And  live  as  those  that  never  die. 

Tho’  you,  with  days  and  honors  crown’d, 
Witness  that  filial  circle  round, 

(A  sight  life’s  sorrows  to  repulse, 

A sight  pale  Envy  to  convulse,) 

Others  now  claim  your  chief  regard; 
Yourself,  you  wait  your  bright  reward. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


215 


THE  AULD  FARMER’S  NEW- YEAR  MORNING 
SALUTATION  TO  HIS  AULD  MARE,  MAGGIE, 

ON  GIVING  HER  THE  ACCUSTOMED  RIP  OF  CORN  TO 
HANSEL  IN  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

A guid  New  Year  I wish  thee,  Maggie! 

Hae,  there’s  a rip  to  thy  auld  baggie: 

Tho’  thou’s  howe-b.ackit,  now,  an’  knaggie, 

I’se  seen  the  day 

Thou  could  hae  gaen  like  onie  staggie 
Out  owre  the  lay. 

Tho’  now  thou’s  dowie,  stiff,  an’  crazy, 

An’  thy  auld  hide’s  as  white’s  a daisy, 

I’ve  seen  thee  dappl’t,  sleek,  an  glaizie, 

A bonie  gray  ; 

He  should  been  tight  that  daur’t  to  raise  theo 
Ance  in  a day. 

Thou  ance  was  i’  the  foremost  rank, 

A filly,  buirdly,  steeve,  an’  swank, 

An’  set  weel  down  a shapely  shank, 

As  e’er  tread  yird, 

An’  could  hae  flown  out  owre  a stank, 

Like  onie  bird. 

It’s  now  some  nine-an’-twenty  year 
Sin’  thou  was  my  guid  father’s  meere 
He  gied  me  thee,  o’  tocher  clear, 

An’  fifty  mark; 


2lO  RURNSS  POEMS. 

Tho’  it  was  sum’,  ’twas  weei-won  gear, 

An’  thou  was  stark. 

When  first  I gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 

Ye  then  was  trottin  wi’  your  minme ; 

Tho’  ye  was  trickie,  slee,  an’  funnie, 

Ye  ne’er  was  donsie ; 

But  hamely,  tawie,  quiet,  an’  canie, 

An’  unco  sonsie. 

That  day,  ye  pranc’d  wi’  muckle  pride, 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonie  bride; 

An’  sweet  an’  gracefu’  she  did  ride 
Wi’  maiden  air! 

Kyle  Stewart  I could  bragged  wide 
For  sic  a pair. 

Though  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  an’  hobble, 
An’  wintle  like  a samount-coble, 

That  day  ye  was  a j inker  noble, 

For  heels  an’  win’ ! 

An’  ran  them  till  they  a’  did  wauble, 

Far,  far  bellin’. 

When  thou  an’  I were  young  an’  skeigh, 
An’  stable  meals  at  fairs  were  dreigh, 

How  thou  wad  prance,  an’  snore,  an’  skreigh, 
An’  tak  the  road! 

Town’s  bodies  ran,  an’  stood  abeigh, 

An’  ca’t  thee  mad. 

When  thou  was  corn’t,  an’  I was  mellow, 
We  took  the  road  ay  like  a swallow ; 

At  Brooses  thou  had  ne’er  a fellow, 

For  pith  an’  speed; 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  217 

But  ev’ry  tail  thou  pay’t  them  hollow 
Where’er  thou  gaed. 

The  sma’,  droop-rumpl’t,  hunter-cattle, 

Might  aiblins  waur’t  thee  for  a brattle; 

But  sax  Scotch  miles,  thou  try’t  their  mettle, 

An’  gar’t  them  whaizle! 

Nae  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a wattle 
O’  saugh  or  hazel. 

Thou  was  a noble  fittie-lan’, 

As  e’er  in  tug  or  tow  was  drawn ! 

Aft  thee  an’  I,  in  aught  hours  gaun, 

On  guid  March  weather, 

Hae  turn’d  sax  rood  beside  our  han’, 

For  days  thegither. 

Thou  never  braindg’t,  an’  fech’t,  an’  fliskit, 

But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whiskit, 

An’  spread  abreed  thy  weel-fill’d  brisket, 

Wi’  pith  and  pow’r, 

Till  spritty  knowes  wad  rair’t  and  risket, 

An’  slypet  owre. 

When  frosts  lay  lang,  an’  snaws  were  deep, 

An’  threaten’d  labor  back  to  keep, 

I gied  thy  cog  a wee  bit  heap 
Aboon  the  timmer ; 

I kenn’d  my  Maggie  wad  na  sleep 
For  that,  or  simmer. 

In  cart  or  car  thou  never  restit; 

The  steyest  brae  thou  wad  hae  fac’d  it; 

Thou  never  lap,  and  sten’t  and  breastit, 

Then  stood  to  blaw; 

19 




218  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

But  just  thy  step  a wee  thing  liastit, 
Thou  snoov’t  awa. 

My  pleugh  is  now  thy  bairn-time  a’; 

Four  gallant  brutes  as  e’er  did  draw ; 

Forbye  sax  mae,  I’ve  sell’t  awa, 

That  thou  hast  nurst; 

They  drew  me  thretteen  pund  an’  twa, 
The  vera  warst. 

Monie  a sair  daurk  we  twa  hae  wrought, 

An’  wi’  the  weary  warl’  fought ! 

An’  monie  an  anxious  day,  I thought 
We  wad  be  beat; 

Vet  here  to  crazy  age  we’re  brought, 

Wi’  something  yet. 

An’  think  na,  my  auld  trusty  servan’, 

That  now,  perhaps,  thou’s  less  deservin’, 

An’  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin’, 
For  my  last  fou, 

A heapit  stimpart,  I’ll  reserve  ane 
Laid  by  for  you. 

We’ve  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither; 

We’ll  toyte  about  wi’  ane  anither; 

Wi’  tentie  care  I’ll  fit  thy  tether 
To  some  hain’d  rig, 

Whare  ye  may  nobly  rax  your  leather, 
Wi’  sma’  fatigue. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


219 


THE  DEATH  AND  DYING  WORDS  OF  POOR 
MAILIE,  THE  AUTHOR’S  ONLY  PET  YOWE. 

AN  UNCO  MOURNFU’  TALE. 

As  Mailie  an’  her  lambs  thegither, 

Where  ae  day  nibbling  on  the  tether, 

Upon  her  cloot  she  coost  a hitch, 

An’  owre  she  warsl’d  in  the  ditch; 

There,  groaning,  dying,  she  did  lie, 

When  Hughoc*  he  came  doytin  by. 

Wi’  glowrin  een,  an’  lifted  han’s, 

Poor  Hughoc  like  a statue  stan’s ; 

He  saw  her  days  were  near-hand  ended, 

But,  waes  my  heart!  he  could  nae  mend  it! 
He  gaped  wide,  but  naething  spak, 

At  length  poor  Mailie  silence  brak. 

“ O thou,  whase  lamentable  face, 

Appears  to  mourn  my  wofu’  case! 

My  dying  words  attentive  hear, 

An’  bear  them  to  my  master  dear. 

“Tell  him,  if  e’er  again  he  keep 
As  muckle  gear  as  buy  a sheep, 

O,  bid  him  never  tie  them  mair 
Wi’  wicked  strings  o’  hemp  or  hair ! 

But  ca’  them  out  to  park  or  hill, 

An’  let  them  wander  at  their  will ; 


220 


BURNS  S POEMS. 


So  may  his  flock  increase,  an’  grow 
To  scores  o’  lambs,  an’  packs  o’  woo’! 

“Tell  him  he  was  a master  kin’, 

An’  ay  was  guid  to  me  an’  mine ; 

An’  now  my  dying  charge  I gie  him, 

My  helpless  lambs,  I trust  them  wi’  him. 

“O,  bid  him  save  their  harmless  lives 
Frae  dogs,  an’  tods,  an’  butchers’  knives ! 

But  gie  them  guid  cow-milk  their  fill, 

Till  they  be  fit  to  feed  themsel’ ; 

An’  tent  them  duly,  e’en  an’  morn, 

Wi’  teats  o’  hay,  an’  rips  o’  corn. 

“An’  may  they  never  learn  the  gaets 
Of  ither  vile  wanrestfu’  pets ! 

To  slink  thro’  slaps,  an’  reve,  an’  steal, 

At  stacks  o’  peas,  or  stocks  o’  kail. 

So  may  they,  like  their  great  forbears, 

For  rrionie  a year  come  thro’  the  shears ; 

So  wives  will  gie  them  bits  o’  bread, 

An’  bairns  greet  for  them  when  they’re  dead. 

“My  poor  toop-lamb,  my  son  an’  heir, 

O,  bid  him  breed  him  up  wi’  care ! 

An’,  if  he  live  to  be  a beast 
To  pit  some  havins  in  his  breast! 

An’  warn  him  what  I winna  name, 

To  stay  content  wi’  yowes  at  hame; 

An’  no  to  rin  an’  wear  his  cloots, 

Like  ither  menseless,  graceless  brutes. 

i 

“An’  niest  my  yowie,  silly  thing. 

Gude  keep  thee  frae  a tether-string. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


221 


O’  may  thou  ne’er  forgather  up 
Wi’  ony  blastit,  moorland  toop; 

But  ay  keep  mind  to  moop  an’  mell 
Wi’  sheep  o’  credit  like  thysel’ ! 

“ And  now,  my  bairns,  wi’  my  last  breath, 
I lea’e  my  blessin’  wi’  you  baith; 

An’  when  you  think  upo’  your  mither 
Mind  to  be  kin’  to  ane  anither. 

“ Now,  honest  Hughoc,  dinna  fail, 

To  tell  my  master  a’  my  tale ; 

An’  bid  him  burn  this  cursed  tether, 

An’,  for  thy  pains,  thous’e  get  my  blether. 

This  said,  poor  Mailie  turn’d  her  head 
An’  clos’d  her  een  a:nang  the  dead. 


POOR  MAILIE’S  ELEGY 

Lament  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose, 

Wi’  saut  tears  trickling  down  your  nose ! 
Our  bardie’s  fate  is  at  a close, 

Past  a’  remead ; 

The  last  sad  cap-stane  o’  his  woes  • 

Poor  Mailie’s  dead! 

It’s  no  the  loss  o’  warl’s  gear, 

That  could  sae  bitter  draw  the  tear, 

Or  mak  our  bardie,  dowie,  wear 

The  mourning  weed* 

19* 


222  BURNS’S  POEM9. 

He’s  lost  a friend  and  neebor  dear, 

In  Mailie  dead. 

Thro’  a’  the  toun  see  trotted  by  him, 

A lang  half  mile  she  could  descry  him; 
Wi’  kindly  bleat,  when  she  did  spy  him, 
She  ran  wi’  speed; 

A friend  mair  faithfu’  ne’er  cam  nigh  him 
Than  Mailie  dead. 

I wat  she  was  a sheep  o’  sense, 

An’  could  behave  hersel’  wi’  mense ; 

I’ll  say’t,  she  never  brak  a fence, 

Thro’  thievish  greed ; 

Our  bardie,  lanely,  keeps  the  spence 
Sin’  Mailie’s  dead. 

Or,  if  he  wanders  up  the  howe, 

Her  living  image,  in  her  yowe, 

Comes  bleating  to  him  o’er  the  knowe, 
For  bits  o’  bread; 

An’  down  the  briny  pearls  rowe, 

For  Mailie  dead. 

She  was  nae  get  o’  moorland  tips, 

Wi’  tawted  ket  an’  hairy  hips  ; 

For  her  forbears  were  brought  in  ships 
Frae  yont  the  Tweed: 

A bonier  fleesh  ne’er  cross’d  the  clips 
Than  Mailie  dead. 

Wae  worth  the  man  wha  first  did  shape 
That  vile,  wanchancie  thing  — a rape! 

It  maks  guid  fellows  girn  an’  gape, 

Wi’  chokin’  dread; 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  223 

An’  Robin’s  bonnet  wave  wi’  crape, 

For  Mailie  dead. 

O,  a’  ye  bards  on  bonie  Doon ! 

An’  wha  on  Ayr  your  chanters  tune 
Come,  join  the  melancholious  croon 
O’  Robin’s  reed! 

Ilis  heart  will  never  get  aboon 
His  Mailie  dead! 


BOOK  IV. 

HUMOROUS,  SATIRICAL,  EPIGRAMMATICAL, 
AND  MISCELLANEOUS. 

TAM  O’SHANTER. 

A TALE. 

Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogilis  full  is  this  buke. 

Gawin  Douglas. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 

And  drouthy  neebors,  neebors  meet, 

As  market  days  are  wearing  late, 

An’  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate  ; 

While  we  set  bousing  at  the  nappy, 

An’  gettin’  fou  and  unco  happy, 

We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 

The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  styles, 

That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 

Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame, 

Gath’ring  her  brows,  like  gath’ring  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  O’Shanter, 

As  he,  frae  Ayr,  ae  night  did  canter, 

(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne’er  a town  surpasses, 

For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses.) 


BURNS  S POEMS. 


225 


O Tam ! hadst  thou  but  been  sae  wise, 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate’s  advice ! 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a skellum, 

A blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 

Ae  market  day  thou  was  na  sober; 

That  ilka  melder,  wi’  the  miller, 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 

That  ev’ry  naig  was  ca’d  a shoe  on, 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on ; 
That  at  the  L — d’s  house,  ev’n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi’  Kirkton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied  that,  late  or  soon, 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown’d  in  Doon, 
Or  catch’d  wi’  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 

By  Alio  way’s  auld  haunted  kirk. 


Ah,  gentle  dames!  it  gars  me  greet, 

To  think  how  monie  counsels  sweet, 

How  monie  lengthen’d,  sage  advices, 

The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises ! 

But  to  our  tale : — Ae  market  night, 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right ; 

Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 

Wi’  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely, 
And  at  his  elbow,  souter  Johnny, 

His  ancient,  trusty,  drouther  crony ; 

Tam  lo’ed  him  like  a vera  brither ; 

They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi’  sangs  and  clatter, 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better; 

The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi’  favors,  secret,  sweet,  and  precious: 


226 


BURNS’S  I»OEMS. 


The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories ; 

The  landlord’s  laugh  was  ready  chorus : 

The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a man  sae  happy, 

E’en  drown’d  himself  amang  the  nappy; 

As  bees  flee  hame  wi’  lades  o’  treasure, 

The  minutes  wing’d  their  way  wi’  pleasure* 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O’er  a’  the  ills  o’  life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 

You  seize  the  flow’r,  its  bloom  is  shed! 

Or,  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river, 

A moment  white  — then  melts  for  ever; 

Or  like  the  borealis  race, 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 

Or  like  the  rainbow’s  lovely  form. 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm ! 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide ; 

The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride; 

That  hour,  o’  night’s  black  arch  the  key-stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in ; 
And  sic  a night  he  taks  the  road  in, 

As  ne’er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  ’twad  blawn  its  last, 
The  rattling  show’rs  rose  on  the  blast; 

The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow’d ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder  bellow’d. 
That  night,  a child  might  understand 
-The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand 


I. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  227 

Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare,  Meg, — 

A better  never  lifted  leg, — 

Tam  skelpit  on  thro’  dub  and  mire, 

Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire ; 

Whyles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Whyles  crooning  o’er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet, 
Whyles  glow’ring  round  wi’  prudent  cares 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares ; 

Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 

Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 

Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor’d; 

And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 

Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak’s  neck-bane ; 

An’  thro’  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 

Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder’d  bairn ; 

And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 

Whare  Mungo’s  mither  hang’d  hersel’. 

Before  him,  Doon  pours  all  its  floods, 

The  doubling  storm  roars  thro’  the  woods ; 

The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole, 

Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ; 

When,  glimm’ring  thro’  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem’d  in  a bleeze ! 

Thro’  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 

And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing! 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn ! 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn! 

Wi’  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil ; 

Wi’  usquebae,  we’ll  face  the  devil! 

The  swats  sae  ream’d  in  Tammie’s  noddle, 

Fair  play,  he  car’d  na  Deils  a boddle. 


228 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish’d, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish’d, 

She  ventur’d  forward  on  the  light, 

And,  vow ! Tam  saw  an  unco  sight ! 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a dance, — 

Nae  cotillon  brent  new  frae  France, 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels, 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 

A winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 

There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o’  beast; 

A towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large, 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge: 

He  screw’d  his  pipes,  and  gart  them  skirl 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a’  did  dirl. 

Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw’d  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses 
And,  by  some  devilish  cantrip  slight, 

Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a light, 

By  which,  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note,  upon  the  haly  table, 

A murd’rers  banes  in  gibbet  aims, 

Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristen’d  bairns 
A thief,  new-cutted  frae  a rape, 

Wi’  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape ; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi’  bluid  red-rusted, 

Five  scimitars,  wi’  murder  crusted ; 

A garter  which  a babe  had  strangled, 

A knife,  a father’s  throat  had  mangled 
Whom  his  ain  son  o’  life  bereft, — 

The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ; 
Three  lawyers’  tongues  turn’d  inside  out, 
Wi’  lies  seam’d  like  a beggar’s  clout; 

And  priests’  hearts,  rotten,  black  as  muck, 
Lay,  stinking,  vile,  in  ev’ry  neuk. 


BURNS’S  POEMS  229 

Wi’  mair  o’  horrible  and  awfu’, 

Which  ev’n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu’. 

As  Tammie  glow’r’d,  amaz’d,  and  curious, 

The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious : 

The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew, 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew  ; 

They  reel’d,  they  set,  they  cross’d,  they  cleekit, 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit, 

And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 

And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark! 

Now  Tam,  O Tam ! had  they  been  queans, 

A’  plump  and  strapping,  in  their  teens; 

Their  sarks,  instead  o’  creeshie  flannen, 

Been  snaw- white,  seventeen  hunder  linen! 

These  breeks  o’  mine,  my  only  pair, 

That  ance  were  plush,  o’  guid  blue  hair, 

I wad  hae  gi’en  them  aff  my  hurdies, 

For  ae  blink  o’  the  bonie  burdies ! 

But  wither’d  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 

Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a foal, 

Lowping  an’  flinging  on  a crummock, 

I wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn’d  what  was  what  fu’  brawlie ; 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie, 

That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 

(Lang  after  kenn’d  on  Carrick  shore ! 

For  monie  a beast  to  dead  she  shot, 

And  perish’d  monie  a bonie  boat, 

And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 

And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear,) 

20 


230  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Her  cutty-sark,  o’  Paisley  harn, 

That  while  a lassie  she  had  worn, 

In  longitude  tho’  sorely  scanty, 

It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. 

Ah  ! little  kenn’d  thy  rev’rend  grannie, 

That  sark  she  cofl  for  her  wee  Nannie, 

Wi’  twa  pund  Scots,  (’twas  a’  her  riches,) 
Wad  ever  grac’d  a dance  o’  witches! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cow’r ; 

Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow’r ; 

To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 

(A  souple  jad  she  was  and  strang ;) 

And  how  Tam  stood,  like  ane  bewitch’d, 

And  thought  his  very  een  enrich’d ; 

Ev’n  Satan  glow’r’d,  and  fidg’d  fu’  fain, 

And  hotch’d,  and  blew  wi’  might  and  main; 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 

Tam  tint  his  reason  a’  thegither, 

And  roars  out,  “ Weel-done,  Cutty-sark!” 

And  in  an  instant  a’  was  dark! 

And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 

When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi’  angry  fyke, 

When  plund’ring  herds  assail  their  byke ; 

As  open  pussie’s  mortal  foes, 

When,  pop!  she  starts  before  their  nose! 

As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 

When,  “Catch  the  thief!”  resounds  aloud; 

So  Maggie  runs, — the  witches  follow, 

Wi’  monie  an  eldritch  screech  and  hollow! 

Ah,  Tam!  ah,  Tam!  thou’ll  get  thy  fairin! 
In  hell  they’ll  roast  thee  like  a herrin! 


BURKS’S  TOEMS. 


231 


In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  cornin’! 

Kate  soon  will  be  a wofu’  woman ! 

Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 

And  win  the  key-stane#  o’  the  brig ; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss,  — 
A running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 

But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a tail  she  had  to  shake  ! 

For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 

Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 

And  flew  at  Tam  wi’  furious  ettle ; 

But  little  wist  she  Maggie’s  mettle ; — 
Ae  spring  brought  aff  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail ! 

The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump, 

And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a stump ! 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o’  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother’s  son  take  heed : 
Whene’er  to  drink  you  are  inclin’d, 

Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 

Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o’er  dear, 
Remember  Tam  O’Shanter’s  mare. 


* It  is  a well  known  fact,  that  witches,  or  any  evil  spirits,  have  no 
power  to  follow  a poor  wight  any  farther  than  the  middle  of  the  next 
running  stream.  It  may  be  proper  likewise  to  mention  to  the  benighted 
traveller,  that  when  he  falls  in  with  Bogles,  whatever  danger  may  be  in 
tiis  going  forward,  there  is  much  more  hazard  in  turning  back. 


232 


BURNS  S POEMS. 


[The  following  poem  will,  by  many  readers,  be  well  enough  under- 
stood ; but  for  '.he  sake  of  those  who  are  unacquainted  with  the  manners 
and  traditions  of  the  country  where  the  scene  is  cast,  notes  are  added, 
to  give  some  account  of  the  principal  charms  and  spells  of  that  night,  so 
big  with  prophecy  to  the  peasantry  in  the  west  of  Scotland.  The  pas- 
sion of  prying  into  futurity  makes  a striking  part  of  the  history  of  human 
nature  in  its  rude  state,  in  all  ages  and  nations ; and  it  may  be  some  en- 
tertainment to  a philosophic  mind,  if  any  such  should  honor  the  author 
\v;.lh  a perusal,  to  see  the  remains  of  it  among  the  more  unenlightened 
iu  our  own.] 


HALLOWEEN.* 

Yes!  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 

The  simple  pleasures  of  the  lowly  train ; 

To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 

One  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 

Goldsmith. 


I. 

Upon  that  night  when  fairies  light, 
On  Cassilis  Downans  f dance, 

Or  owre  the  lays,  in  splendid  blaze, 
On  sprightly  coursers  prance ; 

Or  for  Colean  the  rout  is  taen, 
Beneath  the  moon’s  pale  beams ; 
There,  up  the  cove,J  to  stray  an’  rove 


* It  is  thought  to  be  a night  when  witches,  devils,  and  other  mischief* 
making  beings,  are  all  abroad  on  their  baneful  midnight  errands;  partic- 
ularly those  aerial  people,  the  fairies,  are  said  on  that  night  to  hold  a 
grand  anniversary. 

t Certain  little,  romantic,  rocky,  green  hills,  in  the  neighborhood  of  tha 
ancient  seat  of  the  earls  of  Cassilis. 

% A noted  cavern  near  Colean-house,  called  the  Cove  of  Colean; 
which,  as  well  as  Cassilis  Downans,  is  famed  in  country  story  for  be- 
ing a favorite  haunt  for  fairies. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  233 

Amang  the  rocks  an’  streams, 

To  sport  that  night 

ii. 

Amang  the  bonie,  winding  banks, 

Where  Doon  rins,  wimplin,  clear, 

Where  Bruce*  ance  rul’d  the  martial  ranks, 
And  shook  his  Carrick  spear, 

Some  merry,  friendly,  countra  folks, 

Together  did  convene, 

To  burn  their  nits,  an’  pou  their  stocks, 

An’  haud  their  Halloween, 

Fu’  blythe  that  night. 

hi. 

The  lasses  feat,  an’  cleanly  neat, 

Mair  braw  than  when  they’re  fine ; 

Their  faces  blythe,  fu’  sweetly  kythe, 

Hearts  leal,  an’  warm,  an’  kin’: 

The  lads  sae  trig,  wi’  wooer-babs, 

Weel  knotted  on  their  garten, 

Some  unco  blate,  and  some  wi’  gabs, 

Gar  lasses’  hearts  gang  startin, 

Whyles  fast  that  night. 

IV. 

Then  first  and  foremost,  thro’  the  kail, 

Their  stocks  f maun  a’  be  sought  ance ; 

* The  famous  family  of  that  name,  the  ancestors  of  Robert,  the  great 
deliverer  of  his  country,  were  earls  of  Carrick. 

t The  first  ceremony  of  Halloween  is,  pulling  each  a stock,  or  plant 
of  kail.  They  must  go  out,  hand  in  hand,  with  eyes  shut,  and  pull  the 
first  they  meet  with.  Its  being  big  or  little,  straight  or  crooked,  is  pro- 
phetic of  the  size  and  shape  of  the  grand  object  of  all  their  spells  — tho 
husband  or  wife.  If  any  yird,  or  earth,  stick  to  the  root,  that  is  toucher, 
20* 


234  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

They  steek  their  een,  an’  graip  an’  wale, 
For  muckle  anes  an’  straught  anes. 

Poor  hav’rel  Will  fell  aff  the  drift, 

An7  wander’d  thro’  the  bow-kail, 

An’  pow’t,  for  want  o’  better  shift, 

A runt  was  like  a sow-tail^ 

Sae  bow’t  that  night. 

v. 

Then,  straught,  or  crooked,  yird  or  nane, 
They  roar  an’  cry  a throu’ther; 

The  vera  wee  things,  todlin,  rin 
Wi’  stocks  out  owre  their  sliouther; 

An’  gif  the  custock’s  sweet  or  sour, 

Wi’  joctelegs  they  taste  them; 

Syne  coziely,  aboon  the  door, 

Wi’  cannie  care  they’ve  plac’d  them, 
To  lie  that  night. 

VI. 

The  lasses  staw  frae  ’mang  them  a’, 

To  pou  their  stalks  o’  corn ;  *  * 

But  Rab  slips  out,  an’  jinks  about, 

Behint  the  muckle  thorn: 

He  grippet  Nelly  hard  an’  fast, 


or  fortune ; and  the  taste  of  the  custock,  that  is,  the  heart  of  the  stem, 
is  indicative  of  the  natural  temper  and  disposition.  Lastly,  the  stems, 
or,  to  give  them  their  ordinary  appellation,  the  runts,  are  placed  some- 
where above  the  head  of  the  door : and  the  Christian  names  of  the  peo- 
ple whom  chance  brings  into  the  house,  are,  according  to  the  priority  of 
placing  the  runts,  the  names  in  question. 

* They  go  to  the  barn-yard,  and  pull  each,  at  three  several  times,  a 
stalk  of  oats.  If  the  third  stalk  wants  the  tap-pickle,  that  is,  the  grain  at 
the  top  of  the  stalk,  the  party  in  question  will  come  to  the  marriage-bed 
anything  but  a maid. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  235 

Loud  skirled  a’  the  lasses; 

But  her  tap-pickle  maist  was  lost, 

When  kiuttlin  in  the  fause-house,# 

Wi’  him  that  night. 

VII. 

The  auld  guidwifes’s  weel-hoarded  nits  f 
Are  round  an’  round  divided, 

An’  monie  Jads’  an’  lasses’  fates 
Are  there  that  night  decided : 

Some  kindle,  couthie,  side  by  side, 

An’  burn  thegither  trimly ; 

Some  start  awa  wi’  saucy  pride, 

An’  jump  out  owre  the  chimlie, 

Fu’  high  that  night. 

VIII. 

Jean  slips  in  twa  wi’  tentie  e’e ; 

Wha  ’twas  she  wadna  tell ; 

But  this  is  Jock,  and  this  is  me, 

She  says  in  to  hersel’: 

He  bleez’d  owre  her,  an’  she  owre  him, 

As  they  wad  never  mair  part! 

Till,  fuff!  he  started  up  the  lum, 

An’  Jean  had  e’en  a sair  heart, 

To  see’t  that  night. 


* When  the  corn  is  in  a doubtful  state,  by  being  too  green  or  wet,  tho 
stack-builder,  by  means  of  old  timber,  &c.,  makes  a large  apartment  in 
his  stack,  with  an  opening  in  the  side  which  is  fairest  exposed  to  the 
wind ; this  he  calls  a fause-house. 

t Burning  the  nuts  is  a famous  charm.  They  name  the  lad  and  lass 
to  each  particular  nut,  as  they  lay  them  in  the  fire,  and  accordingly  as 
they  burn  quiety  together,  or  start  from  beside  one  another,  the  course 
and  issue  of  the  courtship  will  be 


236 


BURNS  S POEMS. 


IX. 

Poor  Willie,  wi’  his  bow-kail-runt, 

Was  brunt  wi’  primsie  Mallie ; 

An’  Mallie,  nae  doubt,  took  the  drunt, 
To  be  compar’d  to  Willie ; 

Mall’s  nit  lap  out  wi’  pridefu’  fling, 
An’  her  ain  fit  it  brunt  it; 

While  Willie  lap,  and  swoor  by  jing, 
’Twas  just  the  way  he  wanted 
To  be  that  night. 

x. 

Nell  had  the  fause-house  in  her  min’, 
She  pits  hersel’  an’  Robin ; 

In  loving  bleeze  they  sweetly  join, 

Till  white  in  ase  they’re  sobbin: 

Nell’s  heart  was  dancin  at  the  view, 
She  whisper’d  Rob  to  leuk  for’t: 

Rob,  stowlins,  prie’d  her  bonie  mou, 
Fu’  cozie  in  the  neuk  for’t, 

Unseen  that  night. 

XI. 

But  Merran  sat  behint  their  backs, 

Her  thoughts  on  Andrew  Bell ; 

She  lea’es  them  gashin  at  their  cracks, 
An’  slips  out  by  hersel’; 

She  thro’  the  yard  the  nearest  taks, 
An’  to  the  kiln  she  goes  then, 

An’  darklins  grapit  for  the  bauks, 

And  in  the  blue-clue*  throws  then, 
Right  fear’t  that  night 


* Whoever  would,  with  success,  try  this  spell,  must  strictly  observe 
these  directions:  Steal  out,  all  alone,  into  the  kiln,  and,  darkling*,  throw 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  237 

XII. 

An’  ay  she  win’t,  an’  ay  she  swat, 

I wat  she  made  nae  jaukin ; 

Till  something  held  within  the  pat, 

Guid  L — d,  but  she  was  quakin ! 

But  whether  ’twas  the  Deil  himsel’, 

Or  whether  ’twas  a bauk-en’, 

Or  whether  it  was  Andrew  Bell, 

She  did  nae  wait  on  talkin 

To  spier  that  night. 

XIII. 

Wee  Jennie  to  her  graunie  says, 

“ Will  ye  go  wi’  me,  graunie  ? 

I’ll  eat  the  apple* *  at  the  glass, 

I gat  frae  uncle  Johnnie:” 

She  fuff’t  her  pipe  wi’  sick  a lunt, 

In  wrath  she  was  sae  vap’rin, 

She  notic’t  na,  an  aizle  brunt 
Her  braw  new  worset  apron 

Out  thro’  that  night. 

XIV. 

“Ye  little  skelpie  limmer’s  face, 

How  daur  you  try  sic  sportin, 

As  seek  the  foul  thief  onie  place, 

For  him  to  spae  your  fortune  ? 


into  the  pot  a clue  of  blue  yarn;  wind  it  in  a new  clue  off  the  old  one 
and,  towards  the  latter  end,  something  will  hold  the  thread.  Demand, 
Wha  hauds?  i.  e.,  Who  holds?  An  answer  will  be  returned  from  the 
kiln-pot,  by  naming  the  Christian  and  surname  of  your  future  spouse. 

* Take  a candle,  and  go  alone  to  a looking-glass ; eat  an  apple  before 
it,  and  some  traditions  say  you  should  comb  your  hair  all  the  time ; the 
face  of  your  conjugal  companion  to  be,  will  be  seen  in  the  glass,  as  if 
peeping  over  your  shoulder. 


238 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


Nae  doubt  but  ye  may  get  a sight! 
Great  cause  ye  have  to  fear  it, 

For  monie  a ane  has  gotten  a fright, 
An’  lived  an’  died  deleeret, 

On  sic  a night. 

xv. 

“ Ae  haerst  afore  the  Sherra-moor, 

I mind’t  as  weel’s  yestreen, 

I was  a gilpey,  then,  I’m  sure 
I was  nae  past  fyfteen ; 

The  simmer  had  been  cauld  an’  wat, 
An’  stuff  was  unco  green; 

An’  ay  a rantin  kirn  we  gat, 

A’  just  on  Halloween 

It  fell  that  night. 

XVI. 

“ Our  stibble-rig  was  Rab  M’Graem, 
A clever,  sturdy  fellow ; 

He’s  sin’  gat  Eppie  Sim  wi’  wean, 
That  lived  in  Achmacalla: 

He  gat  hemp-seed, * I mind  it  weel, 
An’  he  made  unco  light  o’t; 

But  monie  a day  was  by  himsel’,  # 
He  was  sae  sairly  frightet 

That  vera  night.” 


* Steal  out,  unperceived,  and  sow  a handful  of  hemp-seed,  harrowing 
it  with  anything-  you  can  conveniently  draw  after  you.  Repeat,  now 
and  then,  “ Hemp-seed,  I saw  thee ; hemp-seed,  I saw  thee  ; and  him  (or 
her)  that  is  to  be  my  true-love,  come  after  me,  and  pou  thee.”  Look 
over  your  left  shoulder,  and  you  will  see  the  appearance  of  the  person 
invoked,  in  the  altitude  of  pulling  hemp.  Some  traditions  say,  “ Come 
after  me,  and  shaw  thee,”  that  is,  show  thyself ; in  which  case  it  simply 
appears.  Others  omit  the  harrowing,  and  say,  “ Come  after  me,  and 
harrow  thee.” 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


239 


XVII. 

Then  up  gat  fechtin’  Jamie  Fleck, 

An’  he  swoor  by  his  conscience, 

That  he  could  saw  hemp-seed  a peck, 

For  it  was  a’  but  nonsense: 

The  auld  guid  man  raught  down  the  pock, 
An’  out  a handfu’  gied  him ; 

Syne  bad  him  slip  frae  ’mang  the  folk, 
Some  time  when  na  ane  see’d  him, 

An’  try’t  that  night. 


XVIII. 

He  marches  thro’  amang  the  stacks, 
Tho’  he  was  something  sturtin ; 
The  graip  he  for  a harrow  taks, 

An’  haurls  at  his  curpin : 

An’  ev’ry  now  an’  then,  he  says, 
“Hemp-seed,  I saw  thee, 

An’  her  that  is  to  be  my  lass, 

Come  after  me,  and  draw  thee 
As  fast  this  night.” 


XIX. 

He  whistl’d  up  Lord  Lennox’s  march, 
To  keep  his  courage  cheery ; 
Although  his  hair  began  to  arch, 

He  was  sae  fley’d  an’  eerie; 

Till  presently  he  hears  a squeak, 

An’  then  a grane  an’  gruntle: 

He  by  his  shouther  gae  a keek, 

An’  tumbl’d  wi’  a wintle 

Out  owre  that  night 


240  burns’s  poems. 

XX. 

He  roar’d  a horrid  murder-shout, 

In  dreadfu’  desperation! 

An’  young  and  auld  came  rinnin  out, 

To  hear  the  sad  narration  : 

He  swoor  ’twas  hilchin  Jean  M’Craw, 

Or  crouchie  Merran  Humphie, 

Till  stop ! she  trotted  thro’  them  a’, 

An’  wha  was  it  but  grumphie 
Asteer  that  night! 

XXI. 

Meg  fain  wad  to  the  barn  hae  gaen, 

To  winn  three  wechts  o’  naething ; * 

But  for  to  meet  the  Deil  her  lane, 

She  pat  but  little  faith  in : 

She  gies  the  herd  a pickle  nits, 

An’  twa  red  cheekit  apples, 

To  watch,  while  for  the  barn  she  sets 
In  hopes  to  see  Tam  Kipples 
That  vera  night. 

XXII. 

She  turns  the  key  wi’  cannie  thraw^ 

And  owre  the  threshold  ventures ; 

* This  charm  must  likewise  be  performed,  unperceived,  and  alone. 
You  go  to  the  barn,  and  open  both  doors,  taking  them  off  the  hinges,  if 
possible ; for  there  is  danger  that  the  being,  about  to  appear,  may  shut 
the  doors,  and  do  you  some  mischief.  Then  lake  that  instrument  used 
in  winnowing  the  corn,  which,  in  our  country  dialect,  we  call  a wecht ; 
and  go  through  all  the  attitudes  of  letting  down  corn  against  the  wind. 
Repeat  it  three  times ; and  the  third  time  an  apparition  will  pass  through 
the  barn,  in  at  the  windy  door,  and  out  at  the  other,  having  both  the  fig- 
ure in  question,  and  the  appearance  or  retinue,  marking  the  employment 
or  station  in  life. 


BURNS  S POEMS. 


241 


But  first  on  Sawnie  gies  a ca’, 

Syne  bauldly  in  she  enters ; 

A ratton  rattled  up  the  wa’, 

An’  she  cried,  L — d,  preserve  her ! 

An’  ran  thro’  midden-hole  an’  a’, 

An’  pray’d  wi’  zeal  an’  fervor, 

Fu’  fast  that  night. 

XXIII. 

They  hoy’t  out  Will,  wi’  sair  advice : 
Then  hecht  him  some  fine  braw  ane; 

It  chanc’d  the  stack  he  faddom’d  thrice,* 
Was  timber-propt  for  thrawin : 

He  taks  a swirlie,  auld  moss  oak, 

For  some  black,  grousome  carlin ; 

An’  loot  a winze,  an’  drew  a stroke, 

Till  skin  in  blypes  cam  haurlin, 

Aff’s  nieves  that  night. 


XXIV. 

A wranton  widow  Leezie  was, 

As  canty  as  a kittlen ; 

But  och!  that  night,  amang  the  shaws, 
She  got  a fearfu’  settlin! 

She-  thro’  the  whins,  an’  by  the  cairn, 

An’  owre  the  hill  gaed  scrievin, 

Whare  three  lairds’  lands  met  at  a burn,f 


* Take  an  opportunity  of  going-,  unnoticed,  to  a bear-stack,  and  fatl> 
om  it  three  times  round.  The  last  fathom  of  the  last  time,  you  will 
catch  in  your  arms  the  appearance  of  your  future  conjug-al  yoke-fellow. 

t You  go  out,  one  or  more,  for  this  is  a social  spell,  to  a south-running 
spring  or  rivulet,  where  u three  lairds’  lands  meet,”  and  dip  your  left 
shirt  sleeve.  Go  to  bed  in  sight  of  a fire,  and  hang  your  wet  sleeve 
before  it  to  dry.  Lie  awake ; and,  sometime  near  midnight,  an  appari- 
tion, having  the  exact  figure  of  the  grand  object  in  question,  will  come 
and  turn  the  sleeve,  as  if  to  dry  the  other  side  of  it. 

21 


242  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

To  dip  her  left  sark-sleeve  in, 

Was  bent  that  night. 

XXV. 

Whyles  o’er  a linn  the  burnie  plays, 
As  thro’  the  glen  it  wimpl’t ; 

Whyles  round  a rocky  scar  it  strays ; 

Whyles  in  a wiel  it  dimpl’t; 

Whyles  glitter’d  to  the  nightly  rays, 
Wi’  bickering,  dancing  dazzle; 
Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes, 
Below  the  spreading  hazel, 

Unseen  that  night 

XXVI. 

Amang  the  brackens,  on  the  brae, 
Between  her  an’  the  moon, 

The  Deil,  or  else  an  outler  quey, 

Gat  up  an’  gae  a croon ! 

Poor  Leezie’s  heart  maist  lap  the  hool ; 

Near  lav’rock-height  she  jumpit, 

But  mist  a fit,  an’  in  the  pool, 

Out  owre  the  lugs  she  plumpit, 

Wi’  a plunge  that  night. 

XXVII. 

In  order,  on  the  clean  hearth-stane, 

The  luggies  three*  are  ranged, 


* Take  three  dishes;  put  clean  water  in  one,  foul  water  in  another; 
leave  the  third  empty.  Blindfold  a person,  and  lead  him  to  the  hearth 
where  the  dishes  are  ranged;  he  (or  she)  dips  the  left  hand:  if  by  chance 
in  the  clean  water,  the  future  husband  or  wife  will  come  to  the  bar  of 
matrimony  a maid;  if  in  the  foul,  a widow;  if  in  the  empty  dish,  it 
foretells,  with  equal  certainty,  no  marriage  at  all.  It  is  repeated  three 
times,  and  every  time  the  arrangement  of  the  dishes  is  altered 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  243 

An’  ev’ry  time  great  care  is  taen, 

To  see  them  duly  changed ; 

Auld  uncle  John,  wha  wedlock’s  joys, 

Sin’  Mar’s  year  did  desire, 

Because  he  gat  the  toom  dish  thrice, 

He  heav’d  them  on  the  fire, 

In  wrath  that  night. 

XXVIII. 

Wi’  merry  sangs,  an’  friendly  cracks, 

I wat  they  did  na  weary ; 

An’  unco  tales,  an’  funnie  jokes, 

Their  sports  were  cheap  an’  cheery. 

Till  butter’d  so’ns,#  wi’  fragrant  lunt, 

Set  a’  their  gabs  a-steerin ; 

Syne,*wi’  a social  glass  o’  strunt, 

They  parted  aff  careerin, 

Fu’  blythe  that  night. 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

A CANTATA. 

RECITATIVO. 

When  lyart  leaves  bestrow  the  yird, 

Or  wav’ring  like  the  Bauckie-bird,  f 
Bedim  cauld  Boreas’  blast; 

When  hail-stanes  drive  wi’  bitter  skyte, 


* Sowins,  with  butter  instead  of  milk  to  them,  is  always  the  Hallow 
een  supper. 

t The  old  Scotch  name  for  the  Bat. 


244  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

And  infant  frosts  begin  to  bite, 

In  hoary  cranreuch  drest; 

Ae  night  at  e’en  a merry  core 
O’  randie,  gangrel  bodies, 

In  Poosie-Nansie’s  held  the  splore, 
To  drink  their  orra  duddies : 

Wi’  quaffing  and  laughing, 

They  ranted  and  they  sang ; 
Wi’  jumping  and  thumping, 

The  vera  girdle  rang. 

First  niest  the  fire,  in  auld  red  rags, 
Ane  sat  weel  brac’d  wi’  mealy  bags, 
And  knapsack  a’  in  order; 

His  doxy  lay  within  his  arm, 

Wi’  usquebae  an’  blankets  warm— a 
She  blinket  on  her  sodger: 

An’  ay  he  gives  the  tousie  drab 
The  tither  skelpin  kiss, 

While  she  held  up  her  greedy  gab 
Just  like  an  a’mous  dish. 

Ilk  smack  still  did 'crack  still, 
Just  like  a cadger’s  whip, 
Then,  stagg’ring  and  swagg’ring 
He  roar’d  this  ditty  up:  — 


AIR. 

Tune  — “ Soldier's  Joy." 

i. 

I am  a son  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in  many  wars. 
And  show  my  cuts  and  scars  wherever  I come 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  245 

This  here  was  for  a wench,  and  that  other  in  a trench, 
When  welcoming  the  French  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

ii. 

My  ’prenticeship  I past  where  my  leader  breath’d  his 
last, 

When  the  bloody  die  was  cast  on  the  heights  of 
Abram ; 

I serv’d  out  my  trade  when  the  gallant  game  was 
play’d, 

And  the  Moro  low  was  laid  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

iii. 

I lastly  was  with  Curtis,  among  the  floating  batt’ries, 
And  there  I left  for  witness  an  arm  and  a limb  ; 

Yet  let  my  country  need  me,  with  Elliot  to  head  me, 
I’d  clatter  on  my  stumps  at  the  sound  of  a drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

IV. 

And  now,  though  I must  beg,  with  a wooden  arm 
and  leg, 

And  many  a tatter’d  rag  hanging  over  my  bum, 

I’m  as  happy  with  my  wallet,  my  bottle,  and  my 
callet, 

As  when  I us’d  in  scarlet  to  follow  a drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c 

v. 

What  tho’  with  hoary  locks,  I must  stand  the  wintei 
shocks, 

Beneath  the  woods  and  rocks  oftentimes  for  a home, 
21* 


246  BURNs’s  POEMS. 

When  the  t’other  bag  I sell,  and  the  t’other  bottle  tellv 
[ could  meet  a troop  of  hell  at  the  sound  of  the  drum* 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 


RECITATIVO. 

He  ended ; and  the  kebars  sheuk 
Aboon  the  chorus  roar; 

While  frighted  rattans  backward  leuk, 
And  seek  the  benmost  bore ; 

A fairy  fiddler  frae  the  neuk, 

He  skirl’d  out  encore ! 

But  up  arose  the  martial  chuck, 

And  laid  the  loud  uproar. 


AIR. 

Tune  — “ Soldier  Laddie 

i. 

1 once  was  a maid,  tho’  I cannot  tell  when, 

And  still  my  delight  is  in  proper  young  men: 

Some  one  of  a troop  of  dragoons  was  my  daddie; 
No  wonder  I’m  fond  of  a sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lai  de  lal,  &c. 

n. 

The  first  of  my  loves  was  a swaggering  blade ; 

To  rattle  the  thundering  drum  was  his  trade: 

His  leg  was  so  tight,  and  his  cheek  was  so  ruddy, 
Transported  I was  with  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  247 

(II. 

But  the  godly  old  chaplain  left  him  in  the  lurch; 

The  sword  I forsook  for  the  sake  of  the  church: 
lie  ventur’d  the  soul , and  I risked  the  body  — 

’Twas  then  I prov’d  false  to  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lai  de  lal,  &c. 

IV. 

Full  soon  I grew  sick  of  my  sanctified  sot, 

The  regiment  at  large  for  a husband  I got; 

From  the  gilded  spontoon  to  the  fife  I was  ready, 

I asked  no  more  but  a sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 

v. 

But  the  peace  it  reduc’d  me  to  beg  in  despair, 

Till  I met  my  auld  boy  at  Cunningham  fair; 

His  rags  regimental  they  flutter’d  so  gaudy, 

My  heart  it  rejoic’d  at  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c 

VI. 

And  now  I have  lived  — I know  not  how  long  — 

And  still  I can  join  in  a cup  or  a song; 

But  whilst  with  both  hands  I can  hold  the  glass  steady 
Here’s  to  thee,  my  fyero,  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c 


RECITATIVO. 

Then  niest  outspak  a raucle  carlin, 

Wha  kent  sae  weel  to  cleek  the  sterling, 
For  monie  a pursie  she  had  hooked, 

And  had  in  monie  a well  been  ducked 


248 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


Her  dove  had  been  a Highland  laddie, 
But  weary  fa’  the  waefu’  woody ! 

Wi’  sighs  and  sobs  she  thus  began 
To  wail  her  braw  John  Highlandman. 


AIR. 

Tune  — “ O,  an ) ye  were  dead , guidman  * 

i. 

A Highland  lad  my  love  was  born, 

The  Lalland  laws  he  held  in  scorn ; 

But  he  still  was  faithfu’  to  his  clan, 

My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 

CHORUS. 

Sing,  hey  my  braw  John  Highlandman1 
Sing,  ho  my  braw  John  Highlandman ! 
There’s  not  a lad  in  a’  the  lan’ 

Was  match  for  my  John  Highlandman. 

ii. 

With  his  philibeg,  an’  tartan  plaid, 

An’  guid  claymore  down  by  his  side, 

The  ladies’  hearts  he  did  trepan, 

My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 

Sing,  hey,  &c. 

in. 

We  ranged  a’  from  Tweed  to  Spey, 

An’  liv’d  like  lords  an’  ladies  gay ; 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


249 


For  a Lalland  face  he  feared  nane, 

My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 

Sing,  hey,  &c. 


They  banish’d  him  beyond  the  sea, 

But  ere  the  bud  was  on  the  tree, 
Adown  my  cheeks  the  pearls  ran, 
Embracing  my  John  Highlandman. 

Sing,  hey,  &c. 


But,  oh!  they  catch’d  him  at  the  last, 

And  bound  him  in  a dungeon  fast ; 

My  curse  upon  them  ev’ry  ane, 

They’ve  hang’d  my  braw  John  Highlandman* 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

VI. 

And  now  a widow,  I must  mourn 
The  pleasures  that  will  ne’er  return ; 

No  comfort  but  a hearty  can, 

When  I think  on  John  Highlandman. 

Sing,  hey,  &c. 


RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy  scraper  wi’  his  fiddle, 

Wha  us’d  to  trysts  and  fairs  to  driddle, 
Her  strappan  limb  and  gaucy  middle, 
He  reach’d  nae  higher, 
Had  hol’d  his  heartie  like  a riddle, 

An’  blawn’t  on  fire. 


250  BURNs’s  POEMS. 

Wi’  hand  on  haunch,  an’  upward  e’e, 
He  croon’d  his  gamut,  one,  two,  three, 
Then,  in  an  Arioso  key, 

The  wee  Apollo 
Set  off  wi’  Allegretto  glee 
His  giga  solo. 


AIR. 

Tune  — “ Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o7.” 

i. 

Let  me  ryke  up  to  dight  that  tear 
An’  go  wi’  me  to  be  my  dear, 

An’  then  your  ev’ry  care  an’  fear 
May  whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 

CHORUS. 

I am  a fiddler  to  my  trade, 

And  a’  the  tunes  that  e’er  I play’d, 
The  sweetest  still  to  wife  or  maid, 
Was  whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 

ii. 

At  kirns  and  weddings  we’se  be  there, 
And  O ! sae  nicely’s  we  will  fare ; 
We’ll  bouse  about  till  daddie  Care 
Sing  whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 

I am,  Sic, 

hi. 

Sae  merrily  the  banes  we’ll  pyke, 

An’  sun  oursels  about  the  dyke 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


251 


An’  at  our  leisure,  when  we  like, 
We’ll  whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 

I am,  &c. 


IV. 

But  bless  me  wi’  your  heav’n  o’  charms, 
An’  while  I kittle  hair  on  thairms, 
Hunger,  cauld,  an’  a’  sic  harms, 

May  whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 

I am,  &c. 


RECITATIVO. 

Her  charms  had  struck  a sturdy  Caird, 

As  weel  as  poor  Gut-scraper; 

He  taks  the  fiddler  by  the  beard, 

And  draws  a rusty  rapier. 

He  swoor  by  a’  was  swearing  worth, 

To  speet  him  like  a pliver, 

Unless  he  would,  from  that  time  forth, 
Relinquish  her  for  ever. 

Wi’  ghastly  e’e,  poor  tweedle-dee 
Upon  his  hunkers  bended, 

And  pray’d  for  grace,  wi’  ruefu’  face, 
And  sae  the  quarrel  ended. 

But  though  his  little  heart  did  grieve, 
When  round  the  tinker  press’d  her, 

He  feign’d  to  snirtle  in  his  sleeve, 

When  thus  the  Caird  address’d  her:  — 


252  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

AIR. 

Tune — “ Clout  the  Caadron” 

i. 

My  bonie  lass,  I work  in  brass, 

A tinker  is  my  station; 

I’ve  travell’d  round  all  Christian  ground 
In  this,  my  occupation. 

I’ve  taen  the  gold,  I’ve  been  enroll’d 
In  many  a noble  squadron; 

But  vain  they  search’d,  when  aff  I march’d 
To  go  and  clout  the  caudron. 

I’ve  taen  the  gold,  &c. 

ii. 

Despise  that  shrimp,  that  wither’d  imp, 

Wi’  a’  his  noise  and  cap’rin, 

And  tak  a share  wi’  those  that  bear 
The  budget  and  the  apron. 

And  by  that  stowp!  my  faith  and  houp, 
And  by  that  dear  Keilbaigie,* 

If  e’er  ye  want,  or  meet  wi’  scant, 

May  I ne’er  weet  my  craigie. 

And  by  that  stowp,  &c. 


RECITATIVO. 

The  Caird  prevail’d  — th’  unblushing  fair 
In  his  embraces  sunk, 

Partly  wi’  love  o’ercome  sae  sair, 

An’  partly  she  was  drunk. 


* A peculiar  sort  of  whiskey,  so  called,  a great  favorite  with  Poosie 
Nansie’s  clubs. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  253 

Sir  Violina,  wi’  an  air 
That  show’d  a man  of  spunk, 

Wish’d  unison  between  the  pair, 

An’  made  the  bottle  clunk 

To  their  health  that  night 

But  hurchin  Cupid  shot  a shaft 
That  play’d  a dame  a shavie, 

The  fiddler  rak’d  her  fore  and  aft, 

Behint  the  chicken  cavie. 

Her  lord,  a wight  o’  Homer’s*  craft, 

Tho’  limpin  wi’  the  spavie, 

He  hirpl’d  up,  and  lap  like  daft, 

And  shor’d  them  dainty  Davie, 

O’  boot  that  night 

He  was  a care-defying  blade, 

As  ever  Bacchus  listed; 

Tho’  Fortune  sair  upon  him  laid, 

His  heart  she  ever  miss’d  it. 

He  had  nae  wish  but  — to  be  glad ; 

Nor  want,  but  — when  he  thirsted! 

He  hated  nought,  but  — to  be  sad; 

And  thus  the  Muse  suggested 
His  sang  that  night 


AIR. 

Tune  — “ For  cC  that , and  a’  that,” 

i. 

I am  a Bard  of  no  regard 
Wi’  gentle  folks,  an’  a’  that; 

Homer  is  allowed  to  be  the  oldest  ballad-singer  on  record* 
22 


254 

BURNS’S  POEMS. 

But  Homer-like,  the  glowran  byke, 
Frae  town  to  town  I draw  that. 

CHORUS. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

And  twice  as  muckle’s  a’  that; 
I’ve  lost  but  ane,  I’ve  twa  behin’, 
I’ve  wife  eneugh  for  a’  that. 

ii. 

I never  drank  the  Muses’  stank, 
Castalia’s  burn,  and  a’  that; 

But  there  it  streams,  and  richly  reams, 
My  Helicon  I ca’  that 

For  a’  that,  &c. 

hi. 

Great  love  I bear  to  a’  the  fair, 
Their  humble  slave,  and  a’  that; 
But  lordly  will  I hold  it  still 
A mortal  sin  to  thraw  that. 

For  a’  that,  &c. 

IV. 

In  raptures  sweet,  this  hour  we  meet, 
Wi’  mutual  love,  and  a’  that; 

But  for  how  lang  the  flie  may  stang, 
Let  inclination  law  that. 

For  a’  that,  &c. 

v. 

Their  tricks  and  craft  have  put  me  daft, 
They’ve  taen  me  in,  and  a’  that; 

But  clear  your  decks,  and  here’s  the  sex ! 
I like  the  jads  for  a’  that. 

BURNS’S  POEMS.  255 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

And  twice  as  muckle’s  a’  that; 

My  dearest  bluid,  to  do  them  guid, 

They’re  welcome  till’t  for  a’  that 


RECITATIVO 

So  sung  the  bard  — and  Nansie’s  wa’s 
Shook  wi’  a thunder  of  applause, 

Re-echo’d  from  each  mouth : 

They  toom’d  their  pocks,  an’  pawn’d  their  duds, 
They  scarcely  left  to  co’er  their  fuds 
To  quench  their  Iowan  drouth. 

Then  owre  again,  the  jovial  thrang 
The  poet  did  request, 

To  loose  his  pack,  an’  wale  a sang, 

A ballad  o’  the  best: 
lie,  rising,  rejoicing, 

Between  his  twa  Deborahs, 

Looks  round  him,  an’  found  them 
Impatient  for  the  chorus. 


AIR 

Tune  — “ Jolly  mortals , Jill  your  glasses” 

i. 

See  the  smoking  bowl  before  us! 

Mark  our  jovial,  ragged  ring ! 

Round  and  round  take  up  the  chorus, 
And  in  raptures  let  us  sing. 


256  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

CHORUS. 

A fig  for  those  by  law  protected! 

Liberty’s  a glorious  feast! 

Courts  for  cowards  were  erected, 
Churches  built  to  please  the  priest® 

ii. 

What  is  title  ? what  is  treasure  ? 

What  is  reputation’s  care  ? 

If  we  lead  a life  of  pleasure, 

’Tis  no  matter  how  or  where. 

A fig,  &c. 

in. 

With  the  ready  trick  and  fable, 
Round  we  wander  all  the  day; 

And  at  night,  in  barn  or  stable, 

Hug  our  doxies  on  the  hay. 

A fig,  &c. 

IV. 

Does  the  train-attended  carriage 
Thro’  the  country  lighter  rove? 
Does  the  sober  bed  of  marriage 
Witness  brighter  scenes  of  love? 

A fig,  &c. 

v. 

Life  is  all  a variorum , 

W e regard  not  how  it  goes ; 

Let  them  cant  about  decorum, 

Who  have  characters  to  lose. 

A fig,  &c. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  257 

VI. 

Here’s  to  budgets,  bags,  and  wallets! 

Here’s  to  all  the  wand’ring  train! 

Here’s  our  ragged  brats  and  callets ! 

One  and  all  cry  out,  Amen! 

A fig  for  those  by  law  protected! 

Liberty’s  a glorious  feast! 

Courts  for  cowards  were  erected, 

Churches  built  to  please  the  priest 


DEATH  AND  DTI.  HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE  STORY. 

Dome  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end, 
And  some  great  lies  were  never  penn’d: 
Ev’n  ministers,  they  hae  been  kenn’d, 

In  holy  rapture, 

A rousing  whid,  at  times  to  vend, 

And  nail’t  wi’  Scripture. 

But  this  that  I am  gaun  to  tell, 

Which  lately  on  a night  befell, 

Is  just  as  true’s  the  Deil’s  in  h— 11 
Or  Dublin  city; 

That  e’er  he  nearer  comes  oursel’ 

’S  a muckle  pity. 

The  Clachan  yill  had  made  me  canty, 

I was  nae  fou,  but  just  had  plenty; 

22* 


258  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

I stacher’d  whyles,  but  yet  took  tent  ay 
To  free  the  ditches ; 

An’  hillocks,  stanes,  an’  bushes,  kenn’d  ay 
Frae  ghaists  an’  witches. 

The  rising  moon  began  to  glow’r 
The  distant  Cumnock  hills  out  owre ; 

To  count  her  horns,  wi’  a’  my  pow’r, 

I set  mysel’ ; 

But  whether  she  had  three  or  four, 

I could  na  tell. 

I was  come  round  about  the  hill, 

An’  todlin  down  on  Willie’s  mill, 

Setting  my  staff  wi’  a’  my  skill, 

To  keep  me  sicker; 

Tho’  leeward  whyles,  against  my  will, 

I took  a bicker. 

I there  wi’  something  did  forgather, 

That  put  me  in  an  eerie  swither ; 

An  awfu’  scythe,  out  owre  ae  shouther, 
Clear  dangling  hang; 

A three-tae’d  leister  on  the  ither 
Lay,  large  an’  lang. 

Its  stature  seem’d  lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 
The  queerest  shape  that  e’er  I saw, 

For  fient  a wame  it  had  ava ! 

And  then,  its  shanks, 

They  were  as  thin,  as  sharp,  an’  sma’ 

As  cheeks  o’  branks! 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  259 

“ Guid  e’en,”  quo’  I ; “ Friend ! hae  ye  been  mawin 
When  ither  folk  are  busy  sawin  ? ” # 

It  seem’d  to  mak  a kind  o’  stan’, 

But  naething  spak ; 

At  length,  says  I,  “ Friend,  whare  ye  gaun  ? 

Will  ye  go  back  P ” 

It  spak  right  ho  we  — “ My  name  is  Death ! 

But  be  na  fley’d.”  Quo’  I,  “ Guid  faith ! 

Ye’re  may  be  come  to  stap  my  breath ; 

But  tent  me,  billie; 

I red  ye  weel,  tak  care  o’  skaith, 

See,  there’s  a gully ! ” 

“ Guidman,”  quo’  he,  “ put  up  your  whittle, 

I’m  no  design’d  to  try  its  mettle ; 

But  if  I did,  I wad  be  kittle 
To  be  mislear’d, 

I wad  na  mind  it,  no  that  spittle 
Out  owre  my  beard.” 

“Weel,  weel!”  says  I,  “a  bargain  be’t; 

Come,  gie’s  your  hand,  an’  sae  we’re  gree’t , 
We’ll  ease  our  shanks,  an’  tak  a seat; 

Come,  gie’s  your  news ; 

This  whylef  ye  hae  been  monie  a gate, 

At  monie  a house.” 

u Ay,  ay ! ” quo’  he,  an’  shook  his  head, 

“It’s  e’en  a lang,  lang  time,  indeed, 

Sin’  I began  to  nick  the  tread, 

An’  choke  the  breath: 


* Thia  rencontre  happened  in  seed  time,  1785. 
t An  epidemical  fever  was  then  raging  in  that  country. 


260 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


Folk  maun  do  something  for  their  bread, 
An’  sae  maun  Death ! 

“ Sax  thousand  years  are  near  hand  fled 

Sin’  I was  to  the  hutching  bred, 

An’  monie  a scheme  in  vain’s  been  laid 
To  stap  or  scar  me ; 

Till  ane  Hornbook’s*  taen  up  the  trade, 
An’  faith,  he’ll  waur  me ! 

“Ye  ken  Jock  Hornbook,  i’  the  Clachan, 

Deil  mak  his  king’s-hood  in  a spleuchan! 

He’s  grown  sae  weel  acquaint  wi’  Buchan,f 
An’  ither  chaps, 

The  weans  haud  out  their  fingers  laughin, 
An’  pouk  my  hips. 

“ See,  here’s  a scythe,  and  there’s  a dart, 

They  hae  pierc’d  monie  a gallant  heart; 

But  Doctor  Hornbook,  wi’  his  art, 

And  cursed  skill, 

Has  made  them  baith  no  worth  a f — t, 
D-rnn’d  haet  they’ll  kill ! 

“’Twas  but  yestreen,  nae  farther  gaen, 

I threw  a noble  throw  at  ane ; 

Wi’  less,  I’m  sure,  I’ve  hundreds  slain, 

But  deil-may-care, 

It  just  play’d  dirl  on  the  bane, 

But  did  nae  mair. 


* This  gentleman,  Dr  Hornbook,  is,  professionally,  a brother  of  the 
sovereign  order  of  the  Ferula,  but,  by  intuition  and  inspiration,  is  at 
once  an  apothecary,  surgeon,  and  physician, 
t Buchan’s  Domestic  Medicine. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  261 

“Hornbook  was  by,  wi’  ready  art,  ✓ 

And  had  sae  fortified  the  part, 

That  when  I looked  to  my  dart, 

It  was  sae  blunt, 

Fient  haet  o’t  wad  hae  pierc’d  the  heart 
Of  a kail-runt. 

“I  drew  my  scythe  in  sic  a fury, 

I near  haud  cowpit  wi’  my  hurry  ; 

But  yet  the  bauld  Apothecary 

Withstood  the  shock; 

I might  as  weel  hae  tried  a quarry 
O’  hard  whin  rock. 

“Ev’n  them  he  canna  get  attended, 

Altho’  their  face  he  ne’er  had  kenn’d  it, 

Just in  a kail-blade,  and  send  it, 

As  soon’s  he  smells’t, 

Baith  their  disease,  and  what  will  mend  it, 

At  once  he  tells’t. 

“And  then  a’  doctor’s  saws  an’  whittles, 

Of  a’  dimensions,  shapes,  an’  mettles, 

A’  kind  o’  boxes,  mugs,  an’  bottles, 

' He’s  sure  to  hae ; 

Their  Latin  names  as  fast  he  rattles 

As  A B C. 

“ Calces  o’  fossils,  earth,  and  trees ; 

True  sal-marinurn  o’  the  seas ; 

The  farina  of  beans  and  peas, 

He  has’t  in  plenty : 

Aqua-fortis,  what  you  please, 

He  can  content  ye. 


262  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

“Forbye,  some  new,  uncommon  weapons, 
Urinus  spiritus  o’  capons ; 

Or  mite-horn  shavings,  filings,  scrapings, 
Distill’d  per  se ; 

Sal  alkali  o’  midge-tail-clippings, 

And  monie  mae.” 

“Wae’s  me  for  Johnny  Ged’s  Hole#  now,” 
Quo’  I,  “if  that  the  news  be  true! 

His  braw  calf-ward  whare  gowans  grew, 

Sae  white  an’  bonie, 

Nae  doubt  they’ll  rive  it  wi’  the  pleugh; 
They’ll  ruin  Johnny!” 

The  creature  grain’d  an  eldrictch  laugh, 

And  says,  “Ye  need  na  yoke  the  pleugh; 
Kirkyards  will  soon  be  till’d  eneugh, 

Tak  ye  nae  fear: 

They’ll  a’  be  trench’d  wi’  monie  a sheugh, 

In  twa-three  year. 

“ Whare  I kill’d  ane,  a fair  strae  death, 

By  loss  o’  blood,  or  want  o’  breath, 

This  night  I’m  free  to  tak  my  aith, 

That  Hornbook’s  skill 
Has  clad  a score  i’  their  last  claith, 

By  drap  an’  pill. 

s 

“ An  honest  wabster  to  his  trade, 

Whase  wife’s  twa  nieves  were  scarce  weel  bred* 
Gat  tippence-worth  to  mend  her  head, 

When  it  was  sair; 


* The  grave-digger* 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  263 

The  wife  slade  cannie  to  her  bed, 

But  ne’er  spak  mair. 

“A  countra  laird  had  taen  the  batts, 

Or  some  curmurring  in  his  guts ; 

His  only  son  for  Hornbook  sets, 

An’  pays  him  well: 

The  lad,  for  twa  guid  gimmer  pets, 

Was  laird  himsel’. 

“ A bonie  lass,  ye  kenn’d  her  name, 

Some  ill-brewn  drink  had  hov’d  her  wame , 

She  trusts  hersel’,  to  hide  her  shame, 

In  Hornbook’s  care : 

Horn  sent  her  aff  to  her  lang  hame, 

To  hide  it  there. 

“ That’s  just  a swatch  o’  Hornbook’s  way ; 

Thus  he  goes  on  from  day  to  day, 

Thus  does  he  poison,  kill,  an’  slay, 

An’s  weel  paid  for’t ; 

Yet  stops  me  o’  my  lawfu’  prey, 

Wi’  his  d-mn’d  dirt. 

“ But  hark ! I’ll  tell  you  of  a plot, 

Tho’  dinna  ye  be  speaking  o’t; 

I’ll  nail  the  self-conceited  sot 

As  dead’s  a herrin; 

Niest  time  we  meet,  I’ll  wad  a groat, 

He  gets  his  fairin!” 

But  just  as  he  began  to  tell, 

The  auld  kirk-hammer  strak  the  bell, 


264  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Some  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twal, 
Which  rais’d  us  baith; 

I took  the  way  that  pleas’d  mysel’, 
And  sae  did  Death. 


*»■ 


A DREAM. 

Thoughts,  words,  and  deeds,  the  statute  blames  with  reason ; 

But  surely  dreams  were  ne’er  indicted  treason. 

[On  reading,  in  the  public  papers,  the  Laureat’s  Ode,  with  the  other 
parade  of  June  4, 17S6,  the  author  was  no  sooner  dropt  asleep,  than  he 
imagined  himself  transported  to  the  birth-day  levee ; and  in  his  dream* 
ing  fancy,  made  the  following  address.] 

I. 

Guid  morning  to  your  Majesty! 

May  heav’n  augment  your  blisses, 

On  every  new  birth-day  ye  see, 

An  humble  poet  wishes  ! 

My  hardship  here,  at  your  levee, 

On  sic  a day  as  this  is, 

Is  sure  an  uncouth  sight  to  see, 

Amang  the  birth-day  dresses 
Sae  fine  this  day. 

ii. 

I see  ye’re  complimented  thrang, 

By  monie  a lord  and  lady; 

“ God  save  the  king ! ” ’s  a cuckoo  sang, 
That’s  unco  easy  said  ay; 

The  Poets,  too,  a venal  gang, 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  265 

Wi’  rhymes  weel-turn’d  and  ready, 

Wad  gar  ye  trow  ye  ne’er  do  wrang, 

But  ay  unerring  steady, 

On  sic  a day. 

hi. 

For  me ! before  a monarch’s  face, 

Ev’n  there  I winna  flatter; 

For  neither  pension,  post,  nor  place, 

Am  I your  humble  debtor; 

So,  nae  reflection  on  your  grace, 

Your  kingship  to  bespatter; 

There’s  monie  waur  been  o’  the  race 
And  aiblins  ane  been  better, 

Than  you  this  day. 

IV. 

’Tis  very  true,  my  sov’reign  king, 

My  skill  may  weel  be  doubted  ; 

But  facts  are  chiels  that  winna  ding, 

An’  downa  be  disputed : 

Your  royal  nest,  beneath  your  wing, 

Is  e’en  right  reft  an’  clouted, 

And  now  the  third  part  o’  the  string, 

An’  less,  will  gang  about  it 
Than  did  ae  day. 

v. 

Far  be’t  frae  me  that  I aspire 
To  blame  your  legislation, 

Or  say,  ye  wisdom  want,  or  fire, 

To  rule  this  mighty  nation! 

But  faith ! I muckle  doubt,  my  Sire, 

Ye’ve  trusted  ministration 
To  chaps,  wha,  in  a barn  or  byre, 

23 


2(36  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Wad  better  fill’d  their  station, 

Than  courts  yon  day. 

VI. 

And  now  ye’ve  gien  auld  Britain  peace, 
Her  broken  shins  to  plaster; 

Your  sair  taxation  does  her  fleece, 

Till  she  has  scarce  a tester: 

For  me,  thank  God!  my  life’s  a lease, 
Nae  bargain  wearing  faster, 

Or,  faith ! I fear,  that  wi’  the  geese, 

I shortly  boost  to  pasture, 

I’  the  craft  some  day. 

VII. 

I’m  no  mistrusting  Willie  Pitt, 

When  taxes  he  enlarges, 

(An’  Will’s  a true  guid  fallow’s  get, 

A name  not  envy  spairges,) 

That  he  intends  to  pay  your  debt, 

An’  lessen  a’  your  charges ; 

But,  G-d’s  sake!  let  nae  saving-fit 
Abridge  your  bonie  barges 

An’  boats  this  day. 

VIII. 

Adieu,  my  Liege ! may  freedom  geek 
Beneath  your  high  protection ; 

An’  may  ye  rax  corruption’s  neck, 

And  gie  her  for  dissection! 

But  since  I’m  here,  I’ll  no  neglect, 

In  loyal,  true  affection, 

To  pay  your  Queen,  with  due  respect, 
My  fealty  an’  subjection, 

This  great  birth-day 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  267 

IX. 

Hail,  Majesty  most  excellent! 

While  nobles  strive  to  please  ye, 

Will  ye  accept  a compliment 
A simple  Poet  gies  ye? 

Thae  bonie  bairn-time,  Heav’n  has  lent, 

Still  higher  may  they  heeze  ye 
In  bliss,  till  fate  some  day  is  sent, 

For  ever  to  release  ye 

Frae  care  that  day. 

x. 

For  you,  young  potentate  o’  Wales, 

I tell  your  Highness  fairly, 

Down  pleasure’s  stream,  wi’  swelling  sails, 

I’m  tauld  ye’re  driving  rarely ; 

But  some  day  ye  may  gnaw  your  nails, 

An’  curse  your  folly  sairly, 

That  e’er  ye  brak  Diana’s  pales, 

Or  rattl’d  dice  wi’  Charlie, 

By  night  or  day. 

XI. 

Yet  aft  a ragged  cowte’s  been  known 
To  mak  a noble  aiver ; 

So  ye  may  doucely  fill  a throne, 

For  a’  their  clish-ma-claver : 

There  him  # at  Agincourt  wha  shone, 

Few  better  were  or  braver; 

And  yet,  wi’  funny,  queer  Sir  John,f 
lie  was  an  unco  shaver, 

For  monie  a day. 


* King  Henry  V.  t Sir  John  Falstaff.  Vide  Shakspeare. 


268 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


XII. 

For  you,  right  rev’rend  O -, 

Nane  sets  the  lawn-sleeve  sweeter, 

Altho’  a ribbon  at  your  lug 
Wad  been  a dress  completer; 

As  ye  disown  yon  paughty  dog 
That  bears  the  keys  of  Peter, 

Then,  swith!  an’  get  a wife  to  hug, 

Or,  trouth ! ye’ll  stain  the  mitre 
Some  luckless  day. 

XIII. 

Young,  royal  Tarry  Breeks,  I learn, 
Ye’ve  lately  come  athwart  her; 

A glorious  galley stem  an’  stern, 
Weel  rigg’d  for  Venus’  barter; 

But  first  hang  out,  that  she’ll  discern 
Your  hymeneal  charter, 

Then  heave  aboard  your  grapple  airn, 
An’  large  upo’  her  quarter, 

Come  full  that  day. 

XIV. 

Ye,  lastly,  bonie  blossoms  a’, 

Ye  royal  lasses  dainty, 

Heav’n  mak  you  guid  as  weel  as  braw, 
An’  gie  you  lads  a plenty ; 

But  sneer  na  British  boys  awa’, 

For  kings  are  unco  scant  ay; 

An’  German  gentles  are  but  sma’, 
They’re  better  just  than  want  ay, 

On  onie  day. 


Alluding  to  the  newspaper  account  of  a certain  royal  sailor’s  amour 


BURNS  S POEMS, 


269 


xv. 

God  bless  you  a’ ! consider  now, 
Ye’re  unco  muckle  dautet; 

But  ere  the  course  o’  life  be  thro’ 
It  may  be  bitter  sautet: 

An’  I hae  seen  their  coggie  fou, 
That  yet  hae  tarrow’d  at  it; 

But  or  the  day  was  done,  I trow, 
The  laggen  they  hae  clautet, 

Fu’  clean  that  day. 


4* 


SCOTCH  DRINK. 

Gie  him  strong  drink  until  he  wink, 

That’s  sinking  in  despair; 

An’  liquor  guid  to  fire  his  bluid, 

That’s  prest  wi’  grief  an’  care ; 

There  let  him  bouse,  an’  deep  carouse, 

Wi’  bumpers  flowing  o’er, 

Till  he  forgets  his  loves  or  debts, 

And  minds  his  griefs  no  more. 

Solomon’s  Proverbs,  xxxi.  6,  7. 

Let  other  poets  raise  a fracas 

’Bout  vines,  an’  wines,  an’  drunken  Bacchus, 

An’  crabbit  names  an’  stories  wrack  us, 

An’  grate  our  lug, 

I sing  the  juice  Scots  bear  can  mak  us, 

In  glass  or  jug. 

O thou,  my  Muse ! guid  auld  Scotch  Drink, 
Whether  thro’  wimpling  worms  thou  jink 


270  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Or,  richly  brown,  ream  o’er  the  brink, 

In  glorious  faem, 

Inspire  me,  till  I lisp  and  wink, 

To  sing  thy  name. 

Let  husky  Wheat  the  haughs  adorn, 

And  Aits  set  up  their  awnie  horn, 

An’  Pease  and  Beans  at  e’en  or  morn, 
Perfume  the  plain, 

Leeze  me  on  thee,  John  Barleycorn, 

Thou  king  o’  grain  ! 

On  thee  aft  Scotland  chows  her  cood, 

In  souple  scones,  the  wail  o’  food ! 

Or  tumblin’  in  the  boiling  flood, 

Wi’  kail  an’  beef; 

But  when  thou  pours  thy  strong  heart’s  blood, 
There  thou  shines  chief. 

Food  fills  the  warns,  an’  keeps  us  livin’; 
Tho’  life’s  a gift  no  worth  receivin’, 

When  heavy  dragg’d  wi’  pine  and  grievin’ ; 
But  oil’d  by  thee, 

The  wheels  o’  life  gae  down-hill,  scrievin’, 
Wi’  rattlin’  glee. 

Thou  clears  the  head  o’  doited  Lear; 

Thou  cheers  the  heart  o’  drooping  Care ; 
Thou  strings  the  nerves  of  Labor  sair, 

At’s  weary  toil ; 

Thou  even  brightens  dark  Despair 
Wi’  gloomy  smile. 

Aft,  clad  in  massy  silver  weed, 

Wi’  Gentles  thou  erects  thy  head; 


BURNS  JS  POEMS.  271 

Yet  humbly  kind  in  time  o’  need, 

The  poor  man’s  wine, 

His  wee  drap  parritch,  or  his  bread, 

Thou  kitchens  fine. 

Thou  art  the  life  o’  public  haunts ; 

But  thee,  what  were  our  fairs  and  rants  ? 

Ev’n  godly  meetings  o’  the  saunts, 

By  thee  inspir’d, 

When  gaping  they  besiege  the  tents, 

Are  doubly  fir’d. 

That  merry  night  we  get  the  corn  in, 

O sweetly  then  thou  reams  the  horn  in ! 

Or  reekin’  on  a New-Year  mornin’ 

In  cog  or  bicker, 

An’  just  a wee  drap  sp’ritual  burn  in, 

An’  gusty  sucker! 

When  Vulcan  gies  his  bellows  breath, 

An’  ploughmen  gather  wi’  their  graith, 

O rare ! to  see  the  fizz  an’  freath 
I’  the  lugget  caup  ! 

Then  Burnewin  comes  on  like  death 
At  ev’ry  chaup. 

Nae  mercy,  then,  for  airn  or  steel; 

The  brawnie,  bainie,  ploughman  chiel’, 

Brings  hard  owrehip,  with  sturdy  wheel, 

The  strong  forehammer, 

Till  block  an’  studdie  ring  an’  reel 
Wi’  dinsome  clamor. 

When  skirlin  weanies  see  the  light, 

Thou  maks  the  gossips  clatter  bright* 


272 


burns’s  poems. 


How  fumlin’  cuifs  their  dearies  slight; 

Wae  worth  the  name! 

Nae  howdie  gets  a social  night, 

Or  plack  frae  them. 

When  neebors  anger  at  a plea, 

An’  just  as  wud  as  wud  can  be, 

How  easy  can  the  barley  bree 

Cement  the  quarrel; 

It’s  aye  the  cheapest  lawyer’s  fee, 

To  taste  the  barrel. 

Alake ! that  e’er  my  Muse  had  reason 
To  wyte  her  countrymen  wi’  treason ; 

But  monie  daily  weet  their  weason 
Wi’  liquors  nice, 

An’  hardly,  in  a winter’s  season, 

E’er  spier  her  price. 

Wae  worth  that  brandy,  burning  trash, 
Fell  source  o’  monie  a pain  an’  brash ! 
Twins  monie  a poor,  doylt,  drunken  hash, 
O’  half  his  days ; 

An’  sends,  beside,  auld  Scotland’s  cash 
To  her  warst  faes. 

Ye  Scots,  wha  wish  auld  Scotland  well! 
Ye  chief,  to  you  my  tale  I tell, 

Poor  plackless  devils  like  mysel’ ! 

It  sets  you  ill, 

W’  bitter,  deathfu’  wines  to  mell, 

Or  foreign  gill. 


May  gravels  round  his  blather  wrench, 
An’  gouts  torment  him  inch  by  inch, 


burns’s  POEMS.  273 

Wha  twists  his  gruntle  wi’  a glunch 
O’  sour  disdain, 

Out  owre  a glass  o’  whiskey-puncli 
Wi’  honest  men. 

O Whiskey ! soul  o’  plays  an’  pranks ! 

Accept  a Bardie’s  humble  thanks! 

When  wanting  thee,  what  tuneless  cranks 
Are  my  poor  verses ! 

Thou  comes  — they  rattle  i’  their  ranks 
At  ither’s  a s ! 

Thee,  Ferintosh  ! O sadly  lost ! 

Scotland,  lament  frae  coast  to  coast! 

Now  colic  grips,  and  barkin  hoast, 

May  kill  us  a’ ; 

For  loyal  Forbes’  chartered  boast 
Is  ta’en  awa’! 

Thae  curst  horse-leeches  o’  th’  Excise, 

Wha  mak  the  whiskey  stells  their  prize ! 

Iiaud  up  thy  han’,  Deil ! ance,  twice,  thrice ! 

There,  seize  the  blinkers! 

An’  bake  them  up  in  brunstane  pies 

For  poor  d — n’d  drinkers. 

Fortune!  if  thou’ll  but  gie  me  still 

Hale  breeks,  a scone,  an’  whiskey  gill, 

An’  rowth  o’  rhyme  to  rave  at  will, 

Tak  a’  the  rest, 

An’  deal’t  about  as  thy  blind  skill 
Directs  thee  best 


274 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


THE  AUTHOR’S  EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRAYER* 

TO  THE  SCOTCH  REPRESENTATIVES  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF 
COMMONS. 

Dearest  of  distillation!  last  and  best  — 

How  art  thou  lost ! Pahody  on  Milton. 

Ye  Irish  Lords,  ye  Knights  an’  Squires, 

Wha  represent  our  burghs  an’  shires, 

An’  doucely  manage  our  affairs 
In  parliament; 

To  you  a simple  Poet’s  prayers 
Are  humbly  sent. 

Alas!  my  roupet  Muse  is  hearse! 

Your  honors’  hearts  wi’  grief  ’twad  pierce, 

To  see  her  sittin  on  her  a — e, 

Low  i’  the  dust, 

An’  scriechin  out  prosaic  verse, 

An’  like  to  brust! 

Tell  them  wha  hae  the  chief  direction, 

Scotland  an’  me’s  in  great  affliction, 

E’er  sin’  they  laid  that  curst  restriction 
On  Aquavitee  ; 

An’  rouse  them  up  to  strong  conviction, 

An’  move  their  pity. 


* This  was  written  before  the  act  anent  the  Scotch  distilleries,  o( 
session  1786 ; for  which  Scotland  and  the  author  return  their  most  grat© 
ful  thanks. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  275 

Stand  forth,  an’  tell  yon  Premier  Youth, 

The  honest,  open,  naked  truth; 

Tell  him  o’  mine  an’  Scotland’s  drouth, 

His  servants  humble: 

The  muckle  Deil  blaw  ye  south, 

If  ye  dissemble ! 

Does  onie  great  man  glunch  an’  gloom! 

Speak  out,  an’  never  fash  your  thumb ! 

Let  posts  an’  pensions  sink  or  soom 

Wi’  them  wha  grant  ’em : 

If  honestly  they  canna  come, 

Far  better  want  ’em. 

In  gath’ring  votes  you  were  na  slack ; 

Now  stand  as  tightly  by  your  tack ; 

Ne’er  claw  your  lug,  an’  fidge  your  back, 

An’  hum  an’  haw ; 

But  raise  your  arm,  an’  tell  your  crack 
Before  them  a’. 

Paint  Scotland  greeting  owre  her  thrissle; 

Her  muchkin  stoup  as  toom’s  a whissle ; 

An’  d-mn’d  excisemen  in  a bussle, 

Seizin  a stell, 

Triumphant  crushin’t  like  a mussel 
Or  lampit  shell. 

Then  on  the  tither  hand  present  her, 

A blackguard  smuggler  right  behint  her, 

An’  cheek-for-chow,  a chuffie  vintner, 
Colleaguing  join, 

Picking  her  pouch  as  bare  as  winter, 

Of  a’  kind  coin. 


276 


BURNS’S  TOEMS. 


Is  there,  that  bears  the  name  o’  Scot, 

But  feels  his  heart’s  bluid  rising  hot, 

To  see  his  poor  auld  mither’s  pot 
Thus  dung  in  staves, 

An’  plunder’d  o’  her  hindmost  groat 
By  gallows  knaves  ? 

Alas ! I’m  but  a nameless  wight, 

Trode  i’  the  mire,  an’  out  o’  sight. 

But  could  I like  Montgomeries  fight, 

Or  gab  like  Boswell, 

There’s  some  sark  necks  I wad  draw  tight, 
An’  tie  some  hose  well. 

God  bless  your  Honors,  can  ye  see’t, 

The  kind,  auld,  cantie  Carlin  greet, 

An’  no  get  warmly  to  your  feet, 

An’  gar  them  hear  it, 

An’  tell  them  wi’  a patriot  heat, 

Ye  winna  bear  it! 

Some  o’  you  nicely  ken  the  laws, 

To  round  the  period  an’  pause, 

An’  wi’  rhetoric  clause  on  clause 
To  mak  harangues ; 

Then  echo  thro’  Saint  Stephen’s  wa’s 
Auld  Scotland’s  wrangs 

Dempster,  a true-blue  Scot  I’se  warran ; 
Thee,  aith-detesting,  chaste  Kilkerran;* 

An’  that  glib-gabbet  Highland  Baron, 

The  Laird  o’  Graham ; f 


* Sir  Adam  Ferguson,  t The  present  Duke  of  Montrose  — (1800.> 


J 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  277 

An’  ane,  a chap  that’s  darn’d  auldfarran, 

Dundas  his  name. 

Erskine,  a spunkie  Norland  billie ; 

True  Campbells,  Frederick  an’  Hay; 

An’  Livingstone,  the  bauld  Sir  Willie; 

An’  monie  ithers, 

Whom  auld  Demosthenes  or  Tully 
Might  own  for  brithers. 

Arouse,  my  boys!  exert  your  mettle, 

To  get  auld  Scotland  back  her  kettle ; 

Or  faith!  I’ll  wad  my  new  pleugh-pettle, 

Ye’ll  see’t  or  lang, 

She’ll  teach  you,  wi’  a reekin’  whittle, 

Anither  sang. 

This  while  she’s  been  in  canc’rous  mood, 

Her  lost  Militia  fir’d  her  bluid ; 

(Deil  na  they  never  mair  do  guid, 

Play’d  her  that  pliskie!) 

An’  now  she’s  like  to  rin  red-wud 
About  her  Whiskey. 

An’  L — d,  if  ance  they  pit  her  till’t, 

Her  tartan  petticoat  she’ll  kilt, 

An’  durk  an’  pistol  at  her  belt, 

She’ll  tak  the  streets, 

An’  rin  her  whittle  to  the  hilt, 

P the  first  she  meets ! 

For  G — d sake,  Sirs ! then  speak  her  fair, 

An’  straik  her  cannie  wi’  the  hair, 

An’  to  the  muckle  house  repair, 

Wi’  instant  speed, 

24 


278  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

An’  strive  wi’  a’  your  wit  an’  lear, 

To  get  remead. 

Yon  ill-tongu’d  tinkler,  Charlie  Fox, 

May  taunt  you  wi’  his  jeers  an’  mocks ; 

But  gie  him’t  het,  my  hearty  cocks! 

E’en  cowe  the  caddie, 

An’  send  him  to  his  dicing  box 
An’  sportin’  lady. 

Tell  yon  guid  bluid  o’  auld  Bockonnock’s, 
I’ll  be  his  debt  twa  mashlum  bannocks, 

An’  drink  his  health  in  auld  Nanse  Tinnocks,# 
Nine  times  a week, 

If  he  some  scheme,  like  tea  and  winnocks, 
Wad  kindly  seek. 

Could  he  some  commutation  broach, 

I’ll  pledge  my  aith  in  guid  braid  Scotch, 
lie  need  na  fear  their  foul  reproach, 

Nor  erudition ; 

Yon  mixtia-maxtie,  queer  hotch-potch, 

The  Coalition. 

Auld  Scotland  has  a raucle  tongue; 

She’s  just  a devil  wi’  a rung ; 

An’  if  she  promise  auld  or  young 
To  tak  their  part, 

Tho’  by  the  neck  she  should  be  strung, 
She’ll  no  desert. 


* A worthy  old  hostess  of  the  author’s,  in  Mauchline,  where  ho 
lometimes  studied  politics  over  a glass  of  guid  auld  Scotch  drink. 


BURNS’S  TOEMS.  279 

An’  now,  ye  chosen  Five-and-Forty, 

May  still  your  mither’s  heart  support  ye; 

Then,  tho’  a minister  grow  dorty, 

An’  kick  your  place, 

Ye’ll  snap  your  fingers,  poor  an’  hearty, 

Before  his  face. 

God  bless  your  honors  a’  your  days, 

Wi’  soups  o’  kail,  an’  brats  o’  claise, 

In  spite  o’  a’  the  thievish  kaes, 

That  haunt  Saint  Jamie’s ! 

Your  humble  Poet  sings  an’  prays 

While  Rab  his  name  is. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

Let  half-starv’d  slaves,  in  warmer  skies, 

See  future  wines,  rich-clust’ring,  rise; 

Their  lot  auld  Scotland  ne’er  envies, 

But  blythe  and  frisky, 

She  eyes  her  free-born,  martial  boys, 

Tak  aff  their  whiskey. 

What  tho’  their  Phoebus  kinder  warms, 
While  fragrance  blooms,  and  beauty  charms! 
When  wretches  range,  in  famish’d  swarms, 
The  scented  groves, 

Or  hounded  forth,  dishonor  arms 
In  hungry  droves  ? 

Their  gun’s  a burden  on  their  shouther; 
They  downa  bide  the  stink  o’  pouther; 

Their  bauldest  thought’s  a hank’ring  swither 
To  stan’  or  rin, 


280  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Till  skelpt  — a shot ; — they’re  aff  a throwther, 
To  save  their  skin. 

But  bring  a Scotsman  frae  his  hill, 

Clap  in  his  cheek  a Highland  gill, 

Say,  such  is  royal  George’s  will, 

An’  there’s  the  foe ! 

He  has  na  thought  but  how  to  kill 
Twa  at  a blow ! 

Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doubtings  tease  him  ; 

Death  comes,  wi’  fearless  eye  he  sees  him; 

Wi’  bluidy  hand  a welcome  gies  him : 

An’  when  he  fa’s, 

His  latest  draught  o’  breathin’  lea’es  him 
In  faint  huzzas! 

Sages  their  solemn  een  may  steek, 

An’  raise  a philosophic  reek, 

An’  physically  causes  seek, 

In  clime  an’  season; 

But  tell  me  Whiskey’s  name  in  Greek, 

I’ll  tell  the  reason! 

Scotland,  my  auld  respected  mither ! 

Tho’  whyles  ye  moistify  your  leather, 

Till  whare  ye  sit,  on  craps  o’  heather, 

Ye  tine  your  dam ; 

(Freedom  an’  Whiskey  gang  thegither!' 

Tak  aff  your  dram! 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  281 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL. 

O Prince ! O Chief  of  many-lhroned  Pow’rs, 

That  led  th’  embattled  Seraphim  to  war. 

Milton. 

O thou  I whatever  title  suit  thee, 

Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie, 

Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  an’  sootie, 

Clos’d  under  hatches, 

Spairges  about  the  brunstane  cootie, 

To  scaud  poor  wretches. 

Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a wee, 

An’  let  poor  damned  bodies  be ; 

I’m  sure  sma’  pleasure  it  can  gie, 

E’en  to  a deil, 

To  skelp  an’  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me, 

An’  hear  us  squeel ! 

Great  is  thy  pow’r,  an’  great  thy  fame, 

Far  kenn’d  and  noted  is  thy  name; 

An’  tho’  yon  lowin’  heugh’s  thy  hame, 
Thou  travels  far; 

An’  faith ! thou’s  neither  lag  nor  lame, 

Nor  blate  nor  scaur. 

Whyles,  ranging  like  a roarin’  lion, 

For  prey,  a’  holes  and  corners  tryin’; 

Whiles  on  the  strong-wing’d  tempest  flyin’ 
Tirling  the  kirks ; 

Whyles,  in  the  human  bosom  pry  in’, 
Unseen  thou  lurks. 

24* 


— __ : . . - ~ . :v  r . ..  : . --a 

282  BUPvNS’s  POEMS. 

I’ve  heard  my  reverend  Graunie  say, 

In  lanely  glens  you  like  to  stray ; 

Or  where  auld  ruin’d  castles  gray, 

Nod  to  the  moon, 

Ye  fright  the  nightly  wand’rer’s  way, 

Wi’  eldritch  croon. 

When  twilight  did  my  Graunie  summon, 

To  say  her  prayers,  douce  honest  woman ! 

Aft  yont  the  dyke  she’s  heard  you  bummin’, 

Wi’  eerie  drone; 

Or,  rustlin’,  thro’  the  boortries  cornin’, 

Wi’  heavy  groan. 

Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter  night, 

The  stars  shot  down  wi’  sklentin’  light, 

Wi’  you,  mysel’,  I gat  a fright, 

Ayont  the  lough; 

Ye,  like  a rash-bush,  stood  in  sight, 

Wi’  waving  sough, 

The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake, 

Each  bristl’d  hair  stood  like  a stake, 

When  wi’  an  eldritch  stour,  quaick — quaick— 

Amang  the  springs, 

Awa  ye  squatter’d,  like  a drake, 

On  whistling  wings. 

Let  warlocks  grim,  an’  wither’d  hags, 

Tell  how  wi’  you  on  ragweed  nags, 

They  skim  the  muirs  and  dizzy  crags, 

Wi*  wicked  speed ; 

And  in  kirk-yards  renew  their  leagues, 

Owre  howkit  dead. 




burns’s  poems.  283 

Thence  countra  wives,  wi’  toil  an’  pain, 

May  plunge  an’  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain; 

For,  oh!  the  yellow  treasure’s  taen 
By  witching  skill : 

An’  dawtit,  twal-pint  Hawkie’s  gaen 
As  yell’s  the  Bill. 

Thence  mystic  knots  mak  great  abuse, 

On  young  guidmen,  fond,  keen,  an’  crouse; 
When  the  best  wark-lume  i’  the  house, 

By  cantrip  wit, 

Is  instant  made  no  worth  a louse, 

Just  at  the  bit. 

When  thowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hoord, 

And  float  the  jingling  icy-boord, 

Then  water-kelpies  haunt  the  foord, 

By  your  direction; 

An’  ’nighted  travelers  are  allur’d 
To  their  destruction. 

An’  aft  your  moss-traversing  spunkies 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  an’  drunk  is: 

The  bleezin,  curst,  mischievous  monkies 
Delude  his  eyes, 

Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is, 

Ne’er  mair  to  rise. 

When  Mason’s  mystic  word  an’  grip, 

In  storms  an’  tempests  raise  you  up, 

Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop, 

Or,  strange  to  tell! 

The  youngest  brother  ye  wad  whip 
Aff  straught  to  h— 11 


284 


BURNs’s  POEMS. 


Lang  syne,  in  Eden’s  bonie  yard, 

When  youthfu’  lovers  first  were  pair’d, 
An’  a’  the  saul  of  love  they  shar’d 
The  raptur’d  hour ; 

Sweet  on  the  fragrant,  flow’ry  swaird, 

In  shady  bow’r: 

Then  you,  ye  auld,  snick-drawing  dog, 
Ye  came  to  Paradise  incog., 

An’  play’d  on  man  a cursed  brogue, 
(Black  be  your  fa’!) 

An’  gied  the  infant  warld  a shog, 

’Maist  ruin’d  a’. 

D’ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a bizz, 

Wi’  reekit  duds,  an’  reestit  gizz, 

Ye  did  present  your  smoutie  phiz 
’Mang  better  folk, 

An’  sklented  on  the  Man  of  Uz 
Your  spitefu’  joke? 

An’  how  ye  gat  him  i’  your  thrall, 

An’  brak  him  out  o’  house  an’  hall, 
While  scabs  an’  blotches  did  him  gall, 
Wi’  bitter  claw, 

An’  lows’d  his  ill-tongu’d,  wicked  Scawl, 
Was  warst  ava? 

But  a’  your  doings  to  rehearse, 

Your  wily  snares  an’  fechtin  fierce, 

Sin’  that  day  Michael*  did  you  pierce, 
Down  to  this  time, 


Vide  Milton,  Book  VI. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  285 

Wad  ding  a Lalland  tongue,  or  Erse, 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

An’  now,  auld  Cloots,  I ken  ye’re  thinkin 
A certain  Bardie’s  rantin,  drinkin, 

Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin 
To  your  black  pit: 

But,  faith ! he’ll  turn  a corner  jinkin, 

An’  cheat  you  yet! 

But,  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben ! 

O,  wad  ye  tak  a thought,  an’  men’, 

Ye  aiblins  might  — I dinna  ken  — 

Still  hae  a stake  — 

I’m  wae  to  think  upo’  your  den, 

Ev’n  for  your  sake! 


ON  THE  LATE  CAPTAIN  GROSE’S  PEREGRI- 
NATIONS THROUGH  SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING  THE  ANTIQUITIES  OF  THAT  KINGDOM. 

Hear!  land  o’  cakes,  and  brither  Scots, 

Frae  Maidenkirk  to  Johnny  Groat’s, 

If  there’s  a hole  in  a’  your  coats, 

I rede  ye  tent  it: 

A chiel’s  amang  you  taking  notes, 

And,  faith,  he’ll  prent  it 

If  in  your  bounds  ye  chance  to  light, 

Upon  a fine,  fat,  fodgel  wight, 

i! 


286 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


O’  stature  short,  but  genius  bright, 

That’s  he  — mark  weel; 

And  wow ! he  has  an  unco  slight 
O’  cauk  and  keel. 

By  some  auld,  houlet-haunted  biggin,5* 

Or  kirk  deserted  by  its  riggin, 

It’s  ten  to  ane  ye’ll  find  him  snug  in 
Some  eldritch  part, 

Wi’  deils,  they  say,  L — d save’s!  colleaguin 
At  some  black  art. 

Ilk  ghaist  that  haunts  auld  ha’  or  cham’er, 
Ye  gipsey-gang  that  deal  in  glamor, 

And  you,  deep-read  in  hell’s  black  grammar, 
Warlocks  and  witches ! 

Ye’ll  quake  at  his  conjuring  hammer, 

Ye  midnight  bitches! 

It’s  tauld  he  was  a sodger  bred, 

And  ane  wad  rather  fa’n  than  fled ; 

But  now  he’s  quat  the  spurtle  blade, 

And  dog-skin  wallet, 

And  taen  the — antiquarian  trade, 

I think  they  call  it. 

He  has  a fouth  o’  all  nick-nackets ! 

Rusty  airn  caps  and  jinglin  jackets, f 
Wad  had  the  Lothians  three  in  tackets, 

A towmont  guid ; 

And  paraitch-pats,  and  auld  saut-backets, 
Before  the  flood. 


• Vide  his  Antiquities  of  Scotland,  f Vide  his  Treatise  on  Ancient 
Armor  and  Weapons. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


287 


Of  Eve’s  first  fire  he  has  a cinder; 

Auld  Tubal  Cain’s  fire-shool  and  fender; 

That  which  distinguished  the  gender 
O’  Balaam’s  ass ; 

A broom-stick  o’  the  witch  of  Endor, 
Weel  shod  wi’  brass. 

Forbye  he’ll  shape  you  aff,  fu’  gleg, 

The  cut  of  Adam’s  philibeg; 

The  knife  that  nicket  Abel’s  craig 
He’ll  prove  you  fully: 

It  was  a faulding  jocteleg, 

Or  lang  kail-gullie. 

But  wad  ye  see  him  in  his  glee, 

For  meikle  glee  and  fun  has  he, 

Then  set  him  down,  and  twa  or  three 
Guid  fellows  wi’  him: 

And  Port,  O Port!  shine  thou  a wee, 
And  then  ye’ll  see  him! 

Now,  by  the  pow’rs  o’  verse  and  prose! 

Thou  art  a dainty  chiel,  O Grose ! 

Whae’er  o’  thee  shall  ill  suppose, 

They  sair  misca’  thee; 

I’d  tak  the  rascal  by  the  nose, 

Wad  say,  Shame  fa’  thee1 


288  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  A WRAPPER,  ENCLOSING  A LETTER  TO 
CAPTAIN  GROSE,  TO  BE  LEFT  WITH  MR.  CARDONNEL, 
ANTIQUARIAN. 

Tune  — “ Sir  John  Malcolm” 

Ken  ye  aught  o’  Captain  Grose? 

Igo,  and  ago, 

If  he’s  amang  his  friends  or  foes  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  south,  or  is  he  north  ? 

Igo,  and  ago. 

Or  drowned  in  the  river  Forth  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  slain  by  Highland  bodies  ? 

Igo,  and  ago, 

And  eaten  like  a wether-haggis  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  to  Abram’s  bosom  gane  ? 

Igo,  and  ago, 

Or  hauden  Sarah  by  the  wane  r 
Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Where’er  he  be,  the  Lord  be  near  him ! 

Igo,  and  ago, 

As  for  the  Deil,  he  daur  na  steer  him ! 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 


BURNS  S POEMS. 


289 


But  please  transmit  the  enclosed  letter, 
Igo,  and  ago, 

Which  will  oblige  your  humble  debtor, 
Tram,  coram,  dago. 

So  may  ye  hae  auld  stanes  in  store, 
Igo,  and  ago, 

The  very  stanes  that  Adam  bore, 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

So  may  ye  get  in  glad  possession. 

Igo,  and  ago, 

The  coins  o’  Satan’s  coronation! 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 


EPIGRAM  ON  CAPTAIN  GROSE. 

The  Deil  got  notice  that  Grose  was  a-dying, 

So,  whip ! at  the  summons,  old  Satan  came  flying ; 
But  when  he  approach’d  where  poor  Francis  lay  moan* 
ing, 

And  saw  each  bed-post  with  its  burden  a-groaning, 
Astonish’d ! confounded ! cried  Satan,  “ By  G — d, 

I’ll  want  ’im,  ere  I take  such  a d ble  load.”  * 


* Mr.  Grose  was  exceedingly  corpulent,  and  used  to  rally  himsel/J 
with  the  greatest  good  humor,  on  the  singular  rotundity  of  hi*  figure. 
This  epigram,  written  by  Burns  in  a moment  of  festivity,  was  so  much 
relished  by  the  antiquarian,  that  he  made  it  serve  as  an  excuse  for  pro* 
onging  the  convivial  occasion  that  gave  it  birth,  to  a very  late  hour. 

25 


290  burns’s  TOEMS. 


LINES 

ON  AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  LORD  DAER. 

This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns, 

I,  Rhymer  Robin,  alias  Burns, 

October  twenty-third, 

A ne’er-to-be-forgotten  day, 

Sae  far  I spreckled  up  the  brae, 

I dinner’d  wi’  a Lord ! 

I’ve  been  at  drucken  writers’  feasts, 

Nay,  been  bitch  fou  ’mang  godly  priests, 
Wi’  rev’rence  be  it  spoken: 

I’ve  even  join’d  the  honor’d  jorum, 

When  mighty  squireships  of  the  quorum 
Their  hydra  drouth  did  sloken. 

But  wi’  a Lord  — stand  out  my  shin ! 

A Lord,  a Peer,  an  Earl’s  son! 

Up  higher  yet,  my  bonnet! 

And  sic  a Lord  — lang  Scotch  ells  twa! 
Our  peerage  he  o’erlooks  them  a’, 

As  I look  o’er  my  sonnet. 

But  oh,  for  Hogarth’s  magic  power! 

To  show  Sir  Bardy’s  willyart  glow’r, 

And  how  he  star’d  and  stammer’d, 
When  goavan,  as  if  led  wi’  branks, 

An’  stumpin  on  his  ploughman  shanks, 

He  in  the  parlor  hammer’d. 

############ 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  291 

I,  sliding,  shelter’d  in  a nook, 

An’  at  his  Lordship  steal’t  a look 

Like  some  portentous  omen; 

Except  good  sense  and  social  glee, 

An’  (what  surpris’d  me)  modesty, 

I marked  nought  uncommon. 

I watch’d  the  symptoms  o’  the  great, 

The  gentle  pride,  the  lordly  state, 

The  arrogant  assuming ; 

The  fient  a pride,  nae  pride  had  he, 

Nor  sauce,  nor  state,  that  I could  see, 

Mail*  than  an  honest  ploughman. 

Then  from  his  Lordship  I shall  learn, 
Henceforth  to  meet  with  unconcern 

One  rank  as  weel’s  another: 

Nae  honest,  worthy  man  need  care, 

To  meet  with  noble,  youthful  Daer, 

For  he  but  meets  a brother. 


*> 


THE  INVENTORY. 

IN  ANSWER  TO  A MANDATE  BY  THE  SURVEYOR  OF  THE 
TAXES. 

Sir,  as  your  mandate  did  request, 

I send  you  here  a faithfu’  list 
O’  gudes  an’  gear,  an’  a’  my  graith, 

To  wh*  '*h  I’m  clear  to  gie  my  aith. 


292  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Imprimis , then,  for  carriage  cattle, 

I hae  four  brutes  o’  gallant  mettle, 

As  ever  drew  afore  a pettle. 

My  Lan’-afore’s  * a guid  auld  has-been , 
An’  wight  an’  wilfu’  a’  his  days  seen: 
My  Lan’-ahin’sf  a weel  gaun  fillie, 
That  aft  has  borne  me  hame  frae  Killie  \ 
An’  your  auld  burro’  monie  a time, 

In  days  when  riding  was  nae  crime ; 
But  ance,  when  in  my  wooing  pride, 

I,  like  a blockhead,  boost  to  ride, 

The  wilfu’  creature  sae  I pat  to, 

(L — d pardon  a’  my  sins,  an’  that  to !) 

I play’d  my  fillie  sic  a shavie, 

She’s  a’  bedevil’d  wi’  the  spavie. 

My  Furr-ahin’s§  a wordy  beast 
As  e’er  in  tug  or  tow  was  trac’d. 

The  fourth’s  a Highland  Donald  hastie, 
A d — n’d  red-wud  Kilburnie  blastie; 
Forbye  a Cowt  o’  Cowt’s  the  wale, 

As  ever  ran  afore  a tail. 

If  he  be  spar’d  to  be  a beast, 

He’ll  draw  me  fifteen  pun’  at  least 

Wheel-carriages  I hae  but  few, — 
Three  carts,  an’  twa  are  feckly  new ; 
Ane  auld  wheel-barrow,  mair  for  token, 
Ae  leg  an’  baith  the  trams  are  broken; 
I made  a poker  o’  the  spin’le, 

An’  my  auld  mither  brunt  the  trin’le. 


* The  fore-horse  on  the  left-hand,  in  the  plough, 
t The  hindmost  on  the  left-hand,  in  the  plough. 
t Kilmarnock 

$ The  hindmost  horse  on  the  right-hand,  in  the  plough 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


293 


For  men,  I’ve  three  mischievous  boys, 
Tun  deils  for  rantin  and  for  noise ; 

A gaudsman  ane,  a thrasher  t’other, 

Wee  Davoc  bauds  the  nowt  in  fother. 

I rule  them  as  I ought,  discreetly, 

An’  aften  labor  them  completely; 

An’  ay  on  Sundays,  duly,  nightly, 

I on  the  questions  targe  them  tightly ; 
Till,  faith ! wee  Davoc’s  turn’d  sae  gleg, 
Tho’  scarcly  langer  than  your  leg, 

He’ll  screed  you  aff  Effectual  Calling, 

As  fast  as  onie  in  the  dwalling. 

I’ve  nane  in  female  servan’  station, 

(L — d,  keep  me  ay  frae  a’  temptation!) 

I hae  na  wife  ; and  that  my  bliss  is, 

An’  ye  hae  laid  na  tax  on  misses; 

An’  then,  if  kirk-folk  dinna  clutch  me, 

I ken  the  devils  dare  na  touch  me. 

Wi’  weans  I’m  mail*  than  weel  contented, 
Heav’n  sent  me  ane  mair  than  I wanted  ; 
My  sonsie,  smirking,  dear-bought  Bess, 

She  stares  the  daddie  in  her  face, 

Enough  of  aught  ye  like  but  grace ; 

But  her,  my  bonie,  sweet,  wee  lady 
I’ve  paid  eneugh  for  her  already ; 

An’  gin  ye  tax  her,  or  her  mither, 

B’  the  L — d,  ye’se  get  them  a’  thegither. 

And  now,  remember,  Mr.  Aiken, 

Nae  kind  of  license  out  I’m  takin’ 

Frae  this  time  forth,  I do  declare, 

I’se  ne’er  ride  horse  nor  hizzie  mair; 
Thro’  dirt  an’  dub  for  life  I’ll  paddle. 

Ere  I sae  dear  pay  for  a saddle  \ 

25# 


294 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


My  travel  a’  on  foot  I’ll  shank  it, 

I’ve  sturdy  bearers,  Glide  be  thankit 

The  kirk  an’  you  may  tak  you  that, 

It  puts  but  little  in  your  pat: 

Sae  dinna  put  me  in  your  buke, 

Nor  for  my  ten  white  shillings  luke. 

This  list,  wi’  my  ain  hand  I wrote  it. 
Day  and  date  as  under  notit; 

Then,  know  all  ye  whom  it  concerns, 
Subsaipsi  hide,  Robert  Burns. 

Mossgiel , Feb.  22,  1786. 


-o 


TO  A LOUSE, 

ON  SEEING  ONE  ON  A EADY’s  BONNET,  AT  CHURCH. 

Ha  ! whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin  ferlie  ? 

Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly, 

I canna  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely 

Owre  gauze  an’  lace; 

Tho’  faith,  I fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 
On  sic  a place. 

Ye  ugly,  creepin,  blastit  wonner, 

Detested,  shunn’d,  by  saunt  and  sinner, 

How  dare  ye  set  your  fit  upon  her, 

Sae  fine  a lady? 

Gae  somewhere  else,  and  seek  your  dinner 
On  some  poor  body! 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  295 

Swith,  in  some  beggar’s  haffet  squattle: 

There  ye  may  creep,  and  sprawl,  and  sprattle 
Wi’  ither  kindred  jumpin  cattle, 

In  shoals  and  nations : 

Whare  horn  nor  bane  ne’er  dare  unsettle 
Your  thick  plantations. 

Now  haud  ye  there,  ye’re  out  o’  sight, 

Below  the  fatt’rils,  snug  an’  tight: 

Na,  faith,  ye  yet!  ye’ll  no  be  right 
Till  ye’ve  got  on  it, 

The  vera  tapmost,  tow’ring  height, 

O’  Miss’s  bonnet. 

My  sooth ! right  bauld  ye  set  your  nose  out, 

As  plump  and  gray  as  onie  grozet; 

0 for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet, 

Or  fell  red  smeddum, 

I’d  gie  you  sic  a hearty  dose  o’t, 

Wad  dress  your  droddum! 

1 wad  na  been  surpris’d  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife’s  flainen  toy; 

Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy, 

On’s  wyliecoat; 

But  Miss’s  fine  Lunardi!  fie, 

How  dare  you  do’t? 

O,  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 

An’  set  your  beauties  a’  abread! 

Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 
The  blastie’s  makin! 

Thae  winks  and  finger-ends,  I dread. 

Are  notice  takin ! 


296  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

O,  wad  some  Pow’r  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursels  as  ithers  see  us  1 
It  wad  frae  monie  a blunder  free  us, 

And  foolish  notion ; 

What  airs  in  dress  an’  gait  wad  lea’e  us, 
And  ev’n  Devotion ! 

^ 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  TOOTH-ACHE. 

My  curse  upon  thy  venom’d  stang, 

That  shoots  my  tortur’d  gums  alang ; 

An’  thro’  my  lugs  gies  monie  a twang, 
Wi’  gnawing  vengeance! 
Tearing  my  nerves  wi’  bitter  pang, 

Like  racking  engines ! 

When  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes, 
Rheumatics  gnaw,  or  colic  squeezes, 

Our  neighbor’s  sympathy  may  ease  us, 
Wi’  pitying  moan; 

But  thee,  thou  hell  o’  a’  diseases, 

Ay  mocks  our  groan ! 

Adown  my  beard  the  slavers  trickle ! 

I throw  the  wee  stools  o’er  the  mickle, 
As  round  the  fire  the  giglets  keckle 
To  see  me  loup ; 

While,  raving  mad,  I wish  a heckle 
Were  in  their  doup ! 

O’  a’  the  num’rous  human  dools, 

111  har’sts,  daft  bargains,  cutty-stools, 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  297 

Or  worthy  friends  rack’d  i’  the  mools, 

Sad  sight  to  see! 

The  tricks  of  knaves,  or  fash  o’  fools, 

Thou  bear’st  the  gree. 

Where’er  that  place  be  priests  ca  hell, 

Whence  a’  the  tones  o’  mis’ry  yell, 

And  ranked  plagues  their  numbers  tell, 

In  dreadfu’  raw, 

Thou,  Toothache,  surely  bear’st  the  bell 
Amang  them  a’ ! 

O thou  grim  mischief-making  chiel, 

That  gars  the  notes  of  discord  squeel, 

Till  daft  mankind  aft  dance  a reel 
In  gore  a shoe-thick ; 

Gie  a’  the  faes  o’  Scotland’s  weal 

A townmond’s  Toothache  ! 


TO  A HAGGIS. 

Fair  fa’  your  honest,  sonsie  face 
Great  chieflain  o’  the  puddin-race ! 
Aboon  them  a’  ye  tak  your  place, 

Painch,  tripe,  or  thairm* 
Weel  are  ye  wordy  of  a grace 
As  lang’s  my  arm. 

The  groaning  trencher  there  you  fill, 
Your  hurdies  like  a distant  hill, 


298 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


j 

Your  pin  wad  help  to  mend  a mill 
In  time  o’  need, 

While  thro’  your  pores  the  dews  distil 
Like  amber  bead. 

His  knife  see  rustic  labor  dight, 

An’  cut  you  up  wi’  ready  slight, 

Trenching  your  gushing  entrails  bright, 

Like  onie  ditch ; 

And  then,  O what  a glorious  sight, 

Warm-reeking,  rich! 

Then  horn  for  horn  they  stretch  an’  strive, 

Deil  tak  the  hindmost,  on  they  drive ; 

Till  a’  their  weel-swall’d  kytes  belyve 
Are  bent  like  drums ; 

Then  auld  guidman,  maist  like  to  rive, 

Bethankit  hums. 

Is  there  that  o’er  his  French  ragout , 

Or  olio  that  wad  staw  a sow, 

Or  fricasse  wad  mak  her  spew 

Wi’  perfect  sconner, 

Looks  down  wi’  sneering,  scornfu’  view 
On  sic  a dinner  P 

Poor  Devil ! see  him  owre  his  trash, 

As  feckless  as  a wither’d  rash, 

His  spindle-shank,  a guid  whiplash, 

His  nieve  a nit; 

Thro’  bloody  flood  or  field  to  dash, 

O how  unfit! 

But  mark  the  rustic,  haggis-fed, 

The  trembling  earth  resounds  his  tread; 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


299 


Clap  in  his  walie  nieve  a blade, 

lie’ll  mak  it  whistle; 

An’  legs,  an’  arms,  an’  heads  will  sned, 
Like  taps  o’  thissle. 

Ye  Pow’rs  wha  mak  mankind  your  care, 
And  dish  them  out  their  bill  o’  fare, 
Auld  Scotland  wants  na  skinking  ware 
That  jaups  in  luggies ; 

But,  if  ye  wish  her  gratefu’  pray’r, 

Gie  her  a Haggis ! 


THE  HOLY  FAIR.* 

A robe  of  seeming  truth  and  trust 
Hid  crafty  Observation ; 

And  secret  hung,  with  poison’d  crust, 
The  dirk  of  Defamation: 

A mask  that  like  the  gorget  show’d, 
Dye- varying  on  the  pigeon ; 

And  for  a mantle  large  and  broad, 
lie  wrapt  him  in  Religion. 

Hypocrisy  A-la-mode. 


I. 

Upon  a simmer  Sunday  morn, 
When  Nature’s  face  is  fair, 

I walked  forth  to  view  the  corn, 
An’  snuff  the  caller  air: 


* Holy  Fair  is  a common  phrase  in  the  west  of  Scotland  for  a sacra> 
mental  occasion. 


% 


300  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

The  rising  sun  owre  Galston  muirs, 
Wi’  glorious  light  was  glintin; 

The  hares  were  hirplin’  down  the  furs, 
The  lav’rocks  they  were  chantin’ 

Fu’  sweet  that  day 

n. 

As  lightsomely  I glow’r’d  abroad, 

To  see  a scene  sae  gay, 

Three  Hizzies,  early  at  the  road, 

Cam  skelpin’  up  the  way; 

Twa  had  manteeles  o’  dolefu’  black, 
But  ane  wi’  lyart  lining; 

The  third,  that  gaed  a-wee-a-back, 

Was  i’  the  fashion  shining 
Fu’  gay  that  day. 

in. 

The  twa  appear’d  like  sisters  twin, 

In  feature,  form,  an’  claes; 

Their  visage  wither’d,  lang,  an  thin, 
An’  sour  as  onie  slaes : 

The  third  cam  up,  hap-step-an’-loup, 

As  light  as  onie  lambie, 

An’  wi’  a curchie  low  did  stoop, 

As  soon  as  e’er  she  saw  me, 

Fu’  kind  that  day. 

IV. 

Wi’  bonnet  aff,  quoth  I,  “Sweet  lass, 

I think  ye  seem  to  ken  me; 

I’m  sure  I’ve  seen  that  bonie  face, 

But  yet  I canna  name  ye.” 

Quo’  she,  an’  laughing  as  she  spak. 

An’  taka  me  by  the  hands. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  301 

“Ye,  for  my  sake,  hae  gien  the  feck 
Of  a’  the  ten  commands 

A screed  some  day 

v. 

“My  name  is  Fun  — your  cronie  dear 
The  nearest  friend  ye  hae ; 

An’  this  is  Superstition  here, 

An’  that’s  Hypocrisy. 

I’m  gaun  to  Holy  Fair, 

To  spend  an  hour  in  daffin  ; 

Gin  ye’ll  go  thare,  yon  runkl’d  pair, 

We  will  get  famous  laughin’ 

At  them  this  day.” 

VI. 

Quoth  I,  “With  a’  my  heart,  I’ll  d o't , 

I’ll  get  my  Sunday  sark  on, 

An’  meet  you  on  the  holy  spot: 

Faith,  we’se  hae  fine  remarkin’ ! ” 

Then  I gaed  hame  at  crowdie  time, 

An’  soon  I made  me  ready ; 

For  roads  were  clad,  frae  side  to  side, 

Wi’  monie  a weary  body, 

In  droves  that  day. 

VII. 

Here  farmers  gash,  in  ridin’  graith, 

Gaed  hoddin  by  their  cotters ; 

There,  swankies,  young,  in  braw  braid  cloth, 
Are  springin’  o’er  the  gutters ; 

The  lasses,  skelpin  barefit,  thrang, 

In  silks  an’  scarlets  glitter; 

26 




302  BURNs’s  POEMS. 

Wi  sweet-milk  cheese,  in  monie  a whang, 
An’  farls  bak’d  wi’  butter 

Fu’  crump  that  day. 

VIII. 

When  by  the  plate  we  set  our  nose, 

Weel  heaped  up  wi’  ha’pence, 

A greedy  glow’r  Black  Bonnet  throws, 

An’  we  maun  draw  our  tippence. 

Then  in  we  go  to  see  the  show  — 

On  ev’ry  side  they’re  gath’rin’, 

Some  carrying  dales,  some  chairs  an’  stool, 
And  some  are  busy  blethrin 

Right  loud  that  day. 

IX. 

Here  stands  a shed  to  fend  the  show’rs, 
An’  screen  our  countra  gentry, 

There  racer  Jess,  an’  twa-three  wh-res, 

Are  blinkin  at  the  entry  ; 

Here  sits  a raw  of  tittlin’  jades, 

Wi’  heaving  breast  and  bare  neck, 

An’  there  a batch  of  wabster  lads, 

Blackguarding  frae  K ck, 

For  fun  this  day. 

x. 

Here  some  are  thinking  on  their  sins, 

An’  some  upo’  their  claes; 

Ane  curses  feet  that  fyl’d  his  shins, 

Anither  sighs  an’  prays. 

On  this  hand  sits  a chosen  swatch, 

Wi’  screw’d-up,  grace-proud  faces 


BURNs’s  POEMS.  303 

On  that  a set  o’  chaps  at  watch, 

Thrang  winkin  on  the  lasses, 

To  chairs  that  day. 

XI. 

O happy  is  the  man  an’  blest! 

Nae  wonder  that  it  pride  him ! 

Whase  ain  dear  lass,  that  he  likes  best, 

Comes  clinkin  down  beside  him! 

Wi’  arm  repos’d  on  the  chair  back, 

He  sweetly  does  compose  him! 

Which,  by  degrees,  slips  round  her  neck, 

An’s  loof  upon  her  bosom, 

Unkenn’d  that  day. 

XII. 

Now  a’  the  congregation  o’er 
In  silent  expectation; 

For  speels  the  holy  door, 

Wi’  tidings  o’  damnation. 

Should  Hornie,  as  in  ancient  days, 

’Mang  sons  o’  G-d  present  him, 

The  very  sight  o’  ’s  face, 

To’s  ain  het  hame  had  sent  him, 

Wi’  fright  that  day. 

XIII. 

Hear  how  he  clears  the  points  o’  faith 
Wi’  rattlin  an’  wi’  thumpin’ ! 

Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath, 

He’s  stampin’,  an’  he’s  jumpin’! 

His  lengthen’d  chin,  his  turn’d-up  snout, 

His  eldritch  squeel  and  gestures, 


304 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


O,  how  they  fire  the  heart  devout, 

Like  cantharidian  plasters, 

On  sic  a day. 

XIV. 

But  hark!  the  tent  has  chang’d  its  voice 
There’s  peace  an’  rest  na  langer; 

For  a’  the  real  judges  rise, 

They  canna  sit  for  anger. 

opens  out  his  cauld  harangues, 

On  practice  and  on  morals ; 

An’  aff  the  godly  pour  in  thrangs, 

To  gie  the  jars  an’  barrels 
A lift  that  day. 

XV. 

What  signifies  his  barren  shine, 

Of  moral  pow’rs  and  reason? 

Ilis  English  style,  an’  gesture  fine. 

Are  a’  clean  out  o’  season: 

Like  Socrates  or  Antonine, 

Or  some  auld  pagan  Heathen, 

The  moral  man  he  does  define, 

But  ne’er  a word  o’  faith  in 

That’s  right  that  day. 

XVI. 

In  guid  time  comes  an  antidote 
Against  the  poison’d  nostrum; 

For  , frae  the  water-fit, 

Ascends  the  holy  rostrum . 

Sae,  up  he’s  got  the  Word  o’  G-d, 

An’  meek  an’  mim  has  view’d  it 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  305 

While  Ccmmon  Sense  has  taen  the  road, 

An’  aff,  an’  up  the  Cowgate,* 

Fast,  fast,  that  day. 

XVII. 

Wee  , niest,  the  guard  relieves, 

An’  Orthodoxy  raibles, 

Tho’  in  his  heart  he  weel  believes, 

An’  thinks  it  auld  wives’  faibles ; 

But,  faith!  the  birkie  wants  a manse, 

So,  cannily  he  hums  them, 

Altho’  his  carnal  wit  an’  sense 
Like  hafflins  ways  o’ercomes  him, 

At  times  that  day. 

XVIII. 

Now  butt  an’  ben,  the  Change-house  fills 
Wi’  yill-caup  Commentators; 

Here’s  crying  out  for  bakes  and  gills, 

An’  there  the  pint  stowp  clatters ; 

While  thick  an’  thrang,  an’  loud  an’  lang, 

Wi’  Logic,  an’  wi’  Scripture, 

They  raise  a din  that,  in  the  end, 

Is  like  to  breed  a rupture 

O’  wrath  that  day. 

xix.  / 

Leeze  me  on  drink!  it  gies  us  mair 
Than  either  school  or  college ; 

It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lair, 

It  pangs  us  fou  o’  knowledge : 


* A street  so  called,  which  faces  the  tent  ill 
26* 
i 

i 


306  BURNS’S  TOEMS. 

Be’t  whiskey  gill,  or  penny  whecp, 

Or  onie  stronger  potion, 

It  never  fails,  on  drinking  deep, 

To  kittle  up  our  notion 

By  night  or  day. 

xx. 

The  lads  and  lasses  blithely  bent 
To  mind  baith  saul  an’  body, 

Sit  round  the  table,  weel  content, 

An’  steer  about  the  toddy. 

On  this  ane’s  dress,  an’  that  ane’s  leuk, 
They’re  making  observations ; 

While  some  are  cozie  i’  the  neuk, 

An’  formin  assignations 

To  meet  some  day. 

XXI. 

But  now  the  L — d’s  ain  trumpet  touts, 

Till  a’  the  hills  are  rairin, 

An’  echoes  back  return  the  shouts; 

Black  is  na  spairin : 

His  piercing  words,  like  Highland  swords. 
Divide  the  joints  and  marrow; 

His  talk  o’  Hell,  where  devils  dwell. 

Our  vera  sauls  does  harrow  * 

Wi’  fright  that  day. 

XXII. 

A vast,  unbottom’d  boundless  pit, 

Fill’d  fou  o’  lowin  brunstane, 


Shakspeare’s  Hamlet. 


BURNS  3 POEMS. 

Wha’s  ragin  flame,  an’  score  bin  heat, 
Wad  melt  the  hardest  whunstane! 
The  half-asleep  start  up  wi’  fear, 

An’  think  they  hear  it  roarin, 
When  presently  it  does  appear 
’Twas  but  some  neebor  snorin, 
Asleep  that  day. 


307 


’Twad  be  owre  lang  a tale  to  tell, 

How  monie  stories  past, 

An’  how  they  crowded  to  the  yill, 

When  they  were  a’  dismist; 

How  drink  gaed  round,  in  cogs  an’  caupa 
Amang  the  forms  an’  benches ; 

An’  cheese  an’  bread,  frae  women’s  laps, 
Was  dealt  about  in  lunches 

An’  dawds  that  day. 


In  comes  a gaucie,  gash  guidwife, 

An’  sits  down  by  the  fire, 

Syne  draws  her  kebbuck  an’  her  knife, 
The  lasses  they  are  shyer. 

The  auld  guidmen,  about  the  grace, 
Frae  side  to  side  they  bother, 

Till  some  ane  by  his  bonnet  lays, 

An’  gies  them’t  like  a tether 
Fu’  lang  that  day. 


XXV. 


W aesucks ! for  him  that  gets  no  lasa 
Or  lasses  that  hae  naething! 


308 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


Sma’  need  has  he  to  say  a grace, 

Or  melvie  his  braw  claething! 

O wives,  be  mindfu’  ance  yoursel’, 

How  bonie  lads  ye  wanted ! 

An’  dinna,  for  a kebbuck  heel, 

Let  lasses  be  affronted, 

On  sic  a day ! 

XXVI. 

Now  Clinkumbell,  wi’  rattlin  tow, 

Begins  to  jow  an’  croon; 

Some  swagger  hame  the  best  they  dow, 
Some  wait  the  afternoon. 

At  slaps  the  billies  halt  a blink, 

Till  lasses  strip  their  shoon ; 

Wi’  faith  an’  hope,  an’  love  an’  drink, 
They’re  a’  in  famous  tune 

For  crack  that  day. 

XXVII. 

How  monie  heats  this  day  converts, 

O’  sinners  and  o’  lasses ! 

Their  hearts  o’  stane,  gin  night  are  gane, 
As  saft  as  onie  flesh  is. 

There’s  some  are  fou  o’  love  divine; 
There’s  some  are  fou  o’  brandy; 

An’  monie  jobs  that  day  begin, 

May  end  in  Houghmagandie, 

Some  itlier  day. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 

309 

THE  ORDINATION. 

For  sense  they  little  owe  to  frugal  Heav’n  — 
To  please  the  mob  they  hide  the  little  giv’n. 

I. 

Kilmarnock  Wabsters  fidge  an’  claw 
An’  pour  your  creeshie  nations ; 

An’  ye  wha  leather  rax  an’  draw, 

Of  a’  denominations : 

Swith  to  the  Laigh  Kirk,  ane  an’  a’, 
An’  there  tak  up  your  stations  ; 
Then  aff  to  Begbie’s  in  a raw, 

An’  pour  divine  libations 

For  joy  this  day. 

ii. 

Curst  Common  Sense,  that  imp  o’  hell, 
Cam  in  wi’  Maggie  Lauder;* 

But  0 aft  made  her  yell, 

An’  R sair  misca’d  her ; 

This  day,  M’ takes  the  flail, 

An’  he’s  the  boy  will  blaud  her! 
He’ll  clap  a shangan  on  he  tail, 

An’  set  the  bairns  to  daud  her 
Wi’  dirt  this  day. 

* Alluding  to  a scoffing  ballad  which  was  made  on  the  admission  of 
tUe  late  reverend  and  worthy  Mr.  L.  to  the  Laigh  Kirk. 

310 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


III. 

Mak  haste  an’  turn  King  David  owre, 
An’  lilt  wi’  holy  clangor; 

O’  double  verse  come  gie  us  four, 

An’  skirl  up  the  Bangor: 

This  day  the  Kirk  kicks  up  a stoure, 
Nae  mair  the  knaves  shall  wrang  her, 

For  heresy  is  in  her  power, 

And  gloriously  she’ll  whang  her 
Wi’  pith  this  day. 

IV. 

Come,  let  a proper  text  be  read,, 

An’  touch  it  aff  wi’  vigor, 

IIow  graceless  Ham#  leugh  at  his  Dad, 
Which  made  Canaan  a nigger; 

Or  Phineasf  drove  the  murdering  blade, 
Wi’  whore-abhorring  rigor; 

Or  Zipporah,  i the  scaulding  jade, 

Was  like  a bluidy  tiger 

I’  the  inn  that  day 

v. 

There,  try  his  mettle  on  the  creed, 

And  bind  him  down  wi’  caution, 

That  Stipend  is  a carnal  weed 
He  taks  but  for  the  fashion; 

And  gie  him  o’er  the  flock,  to  feed, 

And  punish  each  transgression ; 


* Genesis,  ch.  ix.  ver.  22. 
t Numbers,  ch.  xxv.  ver.  8. 
$ Exodus,  ch.  iv.  ver.  25 


burns’s  poems.  311 

Especial,  rams  that  cross  the  breed, 

Gie  them  sufficient  threshin, 

Spare  them  nae  day. 

VI. 

Now  auld  Kilmarnock,  cock  thy  tail, 

And  toss  thy  horns  fu’  canty; 

Nae  mair  thou’lt  rowte  out-owre  the  dale 
Because  thy  pasture’s  scanty ; 

For  lapsfu’  large  o’  gospel  kail 
Shall  fill  thy  crib  in  plenty, 

An’  runts  o’  grace  the  pick  and  wale 
No  gien  by  way  o’  dainty, 

But  ilka  day. 

VII. 

Nae  mair  by  Babel’s  streams  we’ll  weep 
To  think  upon  our  Zion ; 

And  hing  our  fiddlers  up  to  sleep, 

Like  baby-clouts  a-dryin. 

Come,  screw  the  pegs  wi’  tunefu’  cheep, 

And  o’er  the  thairms  be  try  in ; 

Oh,  rare ! to  see  our  elbucks  whcep, 

An’  a’  like  lamb-tails  flying 

Fu’  fast  this  day! 

VIII. 

Lang  patronage,  wi’  rod  o’  airn 
Has  shor’d  the  kirk’s  undoin, 

As  lately  F-nw-ck,  sair  forfairn, 

Has  proven  to  its  ruin: 

Our  Patron,  honest  man!  Glencairn, 

He  saw  mischief  was  brewin; 


312  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

And,  like  a godly  elect  bairn, 

He’s  wal’d  us  out  a true  ane, 

And  sound  this  day. 

IX. 

Now  R harangue  nae  mair, 

But  steek  your  gab  for  ever; 

Or  try  the  wicked  town  of  Ayr, 

For  there  they’ll  think  you  clever; 

Or,  nae  reflection  on  your  lear, 

Ye  may  commence  a shaver! 

Or  to  the  Netherton  repair, 

An’  turn  a carper  weaver 

AfF  hand  this  day. 

x. 

M’ and  you  were  just  a match, 

We  never  had  sic  twa  drones ; 

Auld  Hornie  did  the  Laigh  Kirk  watch, 
Just  like  a winkin’  baudrons : 

An’  aye  he  catch’d  the  tither  wretch, 

To  fry  them  in  his  caudrons; 

But  now  his  honour  maun  detach, 

Wi’  a’  his  brimstone  squadrons, 

Fast,  fast,  this  day. 

XI. 

See,  see  auld  Orthodoxy’s  faes, 

She’s  swingein’  through  the  city; 

Hark  how  the  nine-tail’d  cat  she  plays! 

I vow  it’s  unco  pretty: 

Theic,  Learning,  wi’  his  Greekish  face. 
Grunts  out  some  Latin  ditty; 


-g  — 

I 

BURNS’S  POEMS.  313 

An’  Common  Sense  is  gaun,  she  says, 

To  mak  to  Jamie  Beattie 

Her  plaint  this  day. 

XII. 

But  there’s  Morality  liimsel’, 

Embracing  a’  opinions; 

Hear,  how  he  gies  the  tither  yell, 

Between  his  twa  companions ; 

See,  how  she  peels  the  skin  an’  fell, 

As  ane  were  peelin’  onions ! 

Now  there  — they’re  packed  aflf  to  hell, 

An’  banished  our  dominions, 

Henceforth  this  day. 

XIII. 

O happy  day ! rejoice,  rejoice ! 

Come  bouse  about  the  porter! 

Morality’s  demure  decoys 

Shall  here  nae  mair  find  quarter: 

M’ , R , are  the  boys, 

That  heresy  can  torture ; 

They’ll  gie  her  on  a rape  a hoyse, 

An’  cowe  her  measure  shorter 

By  the  head  some  day. 

XIV. 

* 

Come,  bring  the  tither  mutchkin  in, 

An’  here’s  for  a conclusion: 

To  every  new-light  mother’s  son, 

From  this  time  forth,  Confusion  ; 

27 


314 


BURNS  S POEMS. 


If  mair  they  deave  us  with  their  din, 
Or  Patronage  intrusion, 

We’ll  light  a spunk,  and,  ev’ry  skin, 
We’ll  rin  them  aff  in  fusion, 

Like  oil,  some  day 


■O" 


ADDRESS 

TO  THE  UNCO  GUID,  OR  RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS. 

My  son,  these  maxims  make  a rule, 

And  lump  them  ay  thegither: 

The  rigid  righteous  is  a fool, 

The  rigid  wise  anither. 

The  cleanest  corn  that  e’er  was  dight 
May  hae  some  pyles  o’  caff  in ; 

So  ne’er  a fellow-creature  slight 
For  random  fits  o’  daffm. 

Solomon.  — Eccles.  ch.  vii.,  ver.  16. 

I. 

O ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel’, 

Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 

Ye’ve  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 
Your  neebor’s  faults  and  folly! 

Whase  life  is  like  a weel-gaun  mill, 
Supplied  wi’  store  o’  water, 

The  heapit  happer’s  ebbing  still, 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter. 


ii. 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core, 
As  counsel  for  poor  mortals, 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  315 

That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom’s  door, 

For  glaiket  Folly’s  portals: 

I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes, 

Would  here  propone  defences, 

Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes. 

Their  failings  and  mischances. 

in. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi’  their’s  compar’d, 

And  shudder  at  the  niffer  ; 

But  cast  a moment’s  fair  regard, 

What  makes  the  mighty  differ: 

Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave, 

That  purity  ye  pride  in, 

And  (what’s  aft  mair  than  a’  the  lave), 

Your  better  art  o’  hiding. 

IV. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 
Gies  now  and  then  a wallop, 

What  ragings  must  his  veins- convulse 
That  still  eternal  gallop: 

Wi’  wind  and  tide  fair  i’  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way  ; 

But  in  the  teeth  o’  baith  to  sail, 

It  maks  an  unco  leeway. 


See  social  life  and  glee  sit  down, 

All  joyous  and  unthinking, 

Till  quite  transmogrify’d  they’re  grown 
Debauchery  and  drinking ; 

O would  they  stay  to  calculate 
Th’  eternal  consequences ; 


316  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Or,  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state, 
Damnation  of  expenses ! 

VI. 

Ye  high  exalted,  virtuous  dames, 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces, 

Before  ye  gie  poor  Frailty  names, 
Suppose  a change  o’  cases: 

A dear-lov’d  lad,  convenience  snug, 

A treacherous  inclination ; 

But,  let  me  whisper  i’  your  lug, 

Ye’re  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

VII. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 
Still  gentler  sister  woman; 

Tho’  they  may  gang  a kenning  wrang, 
To  step  aside  is  human: 

One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 
The  moving  why  they  do  it; 

And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 
How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

VIII. 

Who  made  the  heart,  ’tis  he  alone 
Decidedly  can  try  us ; 

He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone, 
Each  spring,  its  various  bias : 

Then  at  the  balance  let’s  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 

What’s  done  we  partly  may  compute 
But  know  not  what’s  resisted 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


317 


THE  TWA  HERDS.* 

O a’  ye  pious,  godly  flocks, 

Weel  fed  on  pastures  orthodox, 

Wha  now  will  keep  you  frae  the  fox, 

Or  worrying  tykes, 

Or  wha  will  tent  the  waifs  and  crocks, 
About  the  dykes? 

The  twa  best  herds  in  a’  the  wast, 

That  e’er  gaed  gospel  horn  a blast, 

These  five-and-twenty  simmers  past, 

O’  dool  to  tell, 

Ilae  had  a bitter,  black  out-cast 
A tween  themsel’. 

O M — —y,  man,  and  wordy  R 11, 

How  could  you  raise  so  vile  a bustle, 

Ye’ll  see  how  new-light  herds  will  whistle, 
And  think  it  fine ; 

The  L — d’s  cause  ne’er  gat  sic  a twistle 
Sin’  I hae  min’. 

O,  sirs ! whae’er  wad  hae  expeckit, 

Your  duty  ye  wad  sae  negleckit, 

Ye,  wha  were  ne’er  by  lairds  respeckit 
To  wear  the  plaid, 


* This  piece  was  among  the  first  of  our  author’s  productions  which 
he  submitted  to  the  public,  and  was  occasioned  by  a dispute  between 
two  clergymen,  near  Kilmarnock. 

27* 


318  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

But  by  the  brutes  themselves  eleckit 
To  be  their  guide. 

What  flock  wi’  M y’s  flock  could  rank? 

Sae  hale  and  hearty  ev’ry  shank, 

Nae  poison’d,  sour,  Arminian  stank 
He  let  them  taste; 

Frae  Calvin’s  well,  ay  clear,  they  drank, 

O sic  a feast! 

The  thummart  wil’-cat,  brock,  and  tod, 
Weel  kenn’d  his  voice  thro’  a’  the  wood, 
He  smelt  their  ilka  hole  and  road, 

Baith  out  and  in, 

And  weel  he  lik’d  to  shed  their  bluid, 

And  sell  their  skin. 

What  herd  like  R 11  tell’d  his  tale  ? 

His  voice  was  heard  thro’  muir  and  dale, 
He  kenn’d  the  Lord’s  sheep,  ilka  tail, 

O’er  a’  the  height, 

And  saw  gin  they  were  sick  or  hale, 

At  the  first  sight. 

He  fine  a mangy  sheep  could  scrub, 

Or  nobly  fling  the  gospel  club, 

And  new-light  herds  could  nicely  drub, 

Or  pay  their  skin, 

Could  shake  them  o’er  the  burning  dub, 

Or  heave  them  in. 

Sic  twa ! — O do  I live  to  see’t ! 

Sic  famous  twa  should  disagreet, 

An’  names,  like  villain,  hypocrite, 

Ilk  ither  gien, 


BURNS’S  1*0EMS.  319 

While  new-light  herds,  wi’  laughin  spite, 

Say  neither’s  lyin’! 

A’  ye  wha  tent  the  gospel  fauld, 

There’s  D n deep,  and  P s shaul. 

But  chiefly  thou,  apostle  A — d, 

We  trust  in  thee, 

That  thou  wilt  work  them,  hot  and  cauld, 

Till  they  agree. 

Consider,  sirs,  how  we’re  beset, 

There’s  scarce  a new  herd  that  we  get, 

But  comes  frae  ’mang  that  cursed  set, 

I winna  name  ; 

I hope  frae  heav’n  to  see  them  yet 
In  fiery  flame. 

D e has  been  lang  our  fae, 

M 11  has  wrought  us  meikle  wae, 

And  that  curs’d  rascal  ca’d  M e, 

And  baith  the  S s, 

That  aft  hae  made  us  black  and  blae, 

Wi’  vengefu’  paws. 

Auld  W w lang  has  hatch’d  mischief, 

We  thought  ay  death  wad  bring  relief, 

But  he  has  gotten,  to  our  grief, 

Ane  to  succeed  him ; 

A chiel  wha’ll  soundly  buff  our  beef, 

I meikle  dread  him. 

And  monie  a ane  that  I could  tell, 

Wha  fain  would  openly  rebel, 

Forbye  turn-coats  amang  oursel’ ; 

There  S — h for  ane 


320 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


I doubt  he’s  but  a gray  nick  quill, 

An’  that  ye’ll  fin’. 

O ! a’  ye  flocks,  o’er  a’  the  hills, 

By  mosses,  meadows,  moors,  and  fells, 
Come  join  your  counsels  and  your  skills 
To  cowe  the  lairds, 

And  get  the  brutes  the  pow’r  themsels 
To  choose  their  herds. 

Then  Orthodoxy  yet  may  prance, 

And  Learning  in  a woody  dance, 

And  that  fell  cur,  ca’d  Common  Sense, 
That  bites  sae  sair, 

"Be  banish’d  o’er  the  sea  to  France; 

Let  him  bark  there. 

Then  Shaw’s  and  D’rymple’s  eloquence, 

M’ ll’s  close  nervous  excellence, 

M’ — ’s  pathetic,  manly  sense, 

And  guid  M’ h, 

Wi’  S — th,  wha  thro’  the  heart  can  glance, 
May  a’  pack  aff. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


321 


THE  CALF. 

TO  THE  REV.  MR.  , ON  HIS  TEXT,  MALACHI,  CH. 

IV.  V.  2 — “AND  THEY  SHALL  GO  FORTH,  AND  GROW 
UP,  LIKE  CALVES  OF  THE  STALL.” 

Right,  sir ! your  text  I’ll  prove  it  true, 

Tho’  heretics  may  laugh ; 

For  instance,  there’s  yoursel’  just  now, 

God  knows,  an  unco  calf! 

And  should  some  patron  be  so  kind, 

As  bless  you  wi’  a kirk, 

I doubt  na,  sir,  but  then  we’ll  find 
Ye’re  still  as  great  a stirk! 

But,  if  the  lover’s  raptur’d  hour 
Should  ever  be  your  lot, 

Forbid  it,  ev’ry  heav’nly  Power, 

You  e’er  should  be  a stot ! 

Tho’  when  some  kind,  connubial  dear, 

Your  but-and-ben  adorns, 

The  like  has  been,  that  you  may  wear 
A noble  head  of  horns ! 

And  in  your  lug,  most  rev’rend  James, 

To  hear  you  roar  and  rowte, 

Few  men  o’  sense  will  doubt  your  claim® 

To  rank  amang  the  nowte. 


322  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

And  when  ye’re  number’d  wi’  the  dead, 
Below  a grassy  hillock, 

VVi’  justice  they  may  mark  your  head  — 
“Here  lies  a famous  Bullock!” 


■#* 


HOLY  WILLIE’S  PRAYER. 

0 thou,  wha  in  the  heavens  dost  dwell, 
Wha,  as  it  pleases  best  thysel’, 

Sends  ane  to  heaven  and  ten  to  hell, 

A’  for  thy  glory, 

And  no  for  ony  guid  or  ill 

They’ve  done  afore  thee! 

1 bless  and  praise  thy  matchless  might, 
When  thousands  thou  hast  left  in  night. 
That  I am  here  afore  thy  sight, 

For  gifts  an’  grace, 

A burnin’  an’  a shinin’  light, 

To  a’  this  place. 

What  was  I,  or  my  generation, 

That  I should  get  such  exaltation  ? 

I,  wha  deserve  sic  just  damnation, 

For  broken  laws, 

Five  thousand  years  ’fore  my  creation, 
Thro’  Adam’s  cause. 

When  frae  my  mither’s  womb  I fell, 
Thou  might  hae  plung’d  me  into  hell. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  323 

To  gnash  my  gums,  to  weep  and  wail, 

In  burnin’  lake, 

Whare  damned  devils  roar  and  yell, 

Chain’d  to  a staik. 

Yet  I am  here,  a chosen  sample, 

To  show  thy  grace  is  great  an’  ample; 

I’m  here  a pillar  in  thy  temple, 

Strong  as  a rock, 

A guide,  a buckler,  an’  example 
To  a’  thy  flock. 

O Lord,  thou  kens  what  zeal  I bear, 

When  drinkers  drink,  and  swearers  swear, 

And  singin’  here,  and  dancin’  there, 

Wi’  great  an’  sma’: 

For  I am  keepit  by  thy  fear, 

Free  frae  them  a’. 

But  yet,  O Lord!  confess  I must, 

At  times  I’m  fash’d  wi’  fleshly  lust; 

An’  sometimes,  too,  wi’  warldly  trust 
Vile  self  gets  in ! 

But  thou  remembers  we  are  dust, 

Defil’d  in  sin. 

/ 

###*######## 

Besides,  I farther  maun  allow, 

Wi’  Lizzie’s  lass,  three  times  I trow; 

But,  Lord,  that  Friday  I was  fou, 

When  I came  near  her, 

Or  else,  thou  kens,  thy  servant  true 

Wad  ne’er  hae  steer’d  her. 

J 


324 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


Maybe  thou  lets  this  fleshly  thorn 
Beset  thy  servant  e’en  and  morn, 

Lest  he  owre  high  and  proud  should  turn, 
’Cause  he’s  sae  gifled ; 

If  sae,  thy  han’  maun  e’en  be  borne, 

Until  thou  lift  it. 

Lord,  bless  thy  chosen  in  this  place, 

For  here  thou  hast  a chosen  race ; 

But  God  confound  their  stubborn  face, 
And  blast  their  name, 

Wha  bring  thy  elders  to  disgrace, 

An’  public  shame. 

Lord,  mind  G — n H n’s  deserts, 

He  drinks,  an’  swears,  an’  plays  at  carts, 
Yet  has  sae  monie  takin’  arts, 

Wi’  grit  an’  sma’, 

Frae  God’s  ain  priest  the  people’s  hearts 
He  steals  awa’. 

An’  whan  he  chasten’d  him  therefor, 

Thou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a splore, 

An’  set  the  warld  in  a roar 

O’  laughin’  at  us ; 

Curse  thou  his  basket  and  his  store, 

Kail  an’  potatoes. 


Lord,  hear  my  earnest  cry  an’  pray’r, 
Against  that  presbyt’ry  o’  Ayr; 

Thy  strong  right  hand,  Lord,  make  it  bare, 
Upo’  their  heads ! 

Lord,  weigh  it  down,  an’  dinna  spare, 

For  their  misdeeds. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  325 

O Lord,  my  God,  that  glib-tongu’d  A n, 

My  very  heart  an’  saul  are  quakin’, 

To  think  how  we  stood  sweatin’,  shakin’, 

An’  d d wi’  dread, 

While  he,  wi’  hinging  lips  and  snakin’, 

Held  up  his  head. 

Lord,  in  the  day  of  vengeance  try  him, 

Lord,  visit  them  wha  did  employ  him, 

An’  pass  not  in  thy  mercy  by  ’em, 

Nor  hear  their  pray’r; 

But  for  thy  people’s  sake,  destroy  ’em, 

And  dinna  spare. 

But,  Lord,  remember  me  and  mine 
Wi’  mercies  temp’ral  and  divine, 

That  1 for  gear  and  grace  may  shine, 

Excell’d  by  nane; 

An’  a’  the  glory  shall  be  thine. 

Amen,  Amen. 


EPITAPH  ON  HOLY  WILLIE. 

Here  Holy  Willie’s  sair-worn  clay 
Takes  up  its  last  abode; 

His  saul  has  taen  some  other  way, 
I fear  the  lefl-hand  road. 

Stop!  there  he  is  as  sure’s  a gun, 
Poor  silly  body,  see  him; 

28 


326 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


Nae  wonder  he’s  as  black’s  the  grun, 
Observe  wha’s  standing  wi’  him. 

Your  brunstane  devilship,  1 see, 

Has  got  him  there  before  ye ; 

But  haud  your  nine-tail  cat  a-wee, 

Till  ance  you’ve  heard  my  story. 

Your  pity  I will  not  implore, 

For  pity  ye  hae  nane; 

J ustice,  alas  ! has  gien  him  o’er, 

And  mercy’s  day  is  gaen. 

But  hear  me,  Sir  Deil  as  ye  are, 

Look  something  to  your  credit , 

A coof  like  him  wad  stain  your  name, 
If  it  were  kent  ye  did  it. 


THE  KIRK’S  ALARM.* 

A SATIRE. 

Orthodox,  orthodox,  wha  believe  in  John  Knox, 
Let  me  sound  an  alarm  to  your  conscience ; 
There’s  a heretic  blast  has  been  blawn  in  the  wast, 
That  what  is  no  sense  must  be  nonsense. 


* This  poem  was  written  a short  time  after  the  publication  of  Dr. 

AI*  Gill’s  Essay. 


burns’s  poems.  327 

Dr.  Mac,#  Dr.  Mac,  you  should  stretch  on  a rack, 

To  strike  evil-doers  wi’  terror; 

To  join  faith  and  sense  upon  onie  pretence, 

Is  heretic,  damnable  error. 

Town  of  Ayr,  Town  of  Ayr,  it  was  mad,  I declare, 
To  meddle  wi’  mischief  a-brewing ; 

Provost  John  is  still  deaf  to  the  church’s  relief, 

And  orator  Bobf  is  its  ruin. 

D’rymple  mild,  | D’rymple ' mild,  tho’  your  heart’s  like 
a child, 

And  your  life  like  the  new-driv’n  snaw, 

Yet  that  winna  save  ye,  auld  Satan  must  hae  ye, 

For  preaching  that  three’s  ane  and  twa. 

Rumble  John,  § Rumble  John,  count  the  steps  wi’  a 
groan, 

Cry  the  book  is  wi’  heresy  cramm’d ; 

Then  lug  out  your  ladle,  deal  brimstone  like  adle, 
And  roar  every  note  of  the  damn’d. 

Simper  James,  ||  Simper  James,  leave  the  fair  Killie 
dames, 

There’s  a holier  chase  in  your  view ; 

I’ll  lay  on  your  head,  that  the  pack  ye’ll  soon  lead, 
For  puppies  like  you  there’s  but  few 

Singet  Sawney, H Singet  Sawney,  are  ye  herding*  the 
penny, 

Unconscious  what  evils  await? 


* Dr.  M’Gill.  t R 1 A— k—  n. 

t Mr.  D— m— le.  § Mr.  R-ss-11. 

11  Mr.  M’K — y.  H Mr.  M y. 


328  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Wi’  a jump,  yell,  and  howl,  alarm  every  soul, 

For  the  foul  thief  is  just  at  your  gate. 

Daddy  Auld,#  Daddy  Auld,  there’s  a tod  in  the  fauld, 
A tod  meikle  waur  than  the  Clerk; 

Tio’  ye  can  do  little  skaith,  ye’ll  be  in  at  the  death, 
An’  if  ye  canna  bite,  ye  may  bark. 

Davie  Bluster,  f Davie  Bluster,  if  for  a saint  ye  do 
muster, 

The  corps  is  no  nice  of  recruits; 

Yet  to  worth  let’s  be  just,  royal  blood  ye  might  boast, 
If  the  ass  was  the  king  of  the  brutes. 

Jamy  Goose,  \ Jamy  Goose,  ye  hae  made  but  toom 
roost, 

In  hunting  the  wicked  lieutenant; 

But  the  Doctor’s  your  mark,  for  the  Lord’s  haly  ark, 
He  has  cooper’d,  and  caw’d  a wrang  pin  in’t. 

Poet  Willie,  § Poet  Willie,  gie  the  Doctor  a volley, 
Wi’  your  liberty’s  chain,  and  your  wit; 

O’er  Pegasus’s  side  ye  ne’er  laid  astride, 

Ye  but  smelt,  man,  the  place  where  he  sh-t. 

Andro  Gouk,  ||  Andro  Gouk,  ye  may  slander  the  book, 
And  the  book  not  the  waur,  let  me  tell  ye ! 

Ye  are  rich,  and  look  big,  but  lay  by  hat  and  wig, 
And  ye’ll  hae  a calf’s  head  o’  sma’  value. 


♦ Mr.  A— d.  t Mr.  G t,  of  O— 1— e. 

X Mr.  Y— g,  of  C— n— k.  § Mr.  P— b— s,  of  Ayr. 

il  Dr.  A.  M — 11. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  329 

Barr  Steenie, * Barr  Steenio,  what  mean  ye  ? what 
mean  ye  ? 

If  ye’ll  meddle  nae  mair  wi’  the  matter, 

Ye  may  hae  some  pretence  to  havins  and  sense, 

Wi’  people  wha  ken  ye  nae  better. 

Irvine  Side,f  Irvine  Side,  wi’  your  turkey-cock  pride, 
Of  manhood  but  sma’  is  your  share  ; 

Ye’ve  the  figure,  ’tis  true,  ev’n  your  faes  will  allow, 
And  your  friends  they  dare  grant  ye  nae  mair. 

Muirland  Jock,|  Muirland  Jock,  when  the  Lord  makes 
a rock 

To  crush  Common  Sense  for  her  sins  ; 

If  ill  manners  were  wit,  there’s  no  mortal  so  fit 
To  confound  the  poor  Doctor  at  ance. 

Holy  Will,  § Holy  Will,  there  was  wit  i’  your  skull, 
When  ye  pilfer’d  the  alms  o’  the  poor; 

The  timmer  is  scant,  when  ye’re  taen  for  a saint, 
Wha  should  swing  in  a rape  for  an  hour. 

Calvin’s  sons,  Calvin’s  sons,  seize  your  sp’ritual  guns, 
Ammunition  you  never  can  need ; 

Your  hearts  are  the  stuff,  will  be  powther  enough, 
And  your  skulls  are  store-houses  o’  lead. 

Poet  Burns,  Poet  Burns,  wi’  your  priest-skelping  turns, 
Why  desert  ye  your  auld  native  shire  ? 

Your  Muse  is  a gipsie,  e’en  tho’  she  were  tipsie, 

She  could  ca’  us  nae  waur  than  we  are. 


* s n Y—g,  of  B— -r.  t Mr.  S h,  of  G— n. 

t Mr.  S cl.  § An  Elder  in  M — e. 

28* 


330  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


LETTER  TO  JOHN  GOUDIE,  KILMARNOCK, 

ON  TIIE  PUBLICATION  OF  IIIS  ESSAYS. 

O Goujdie  ! terror  o’  the  whigs, 

Dread  o’  black  coats  and  rev’rend  wigs, 

Soor  Bigotry,  on  her  last  legs, 

Girnin  looks  back, 

Wishing  the  ten  Egyptian  plagues 
Wad  seize  yon  quick. 

Poor  gapin’,  glowrin’  Superstition, 

Waes  me!  she’s  in  a sad  condition: 

Fly,  bring  Black  Jock,  her  state  physician, 

To  see  her  water ; 

Alas ! there’s  ground  o’  great  suspicion 
She’ll  ne’er  get  better. 

Auld  Orthodoxy  lang  did  grapple, 

But  now  she’s  got  an  unco  ripple ; 

Haste ! gie  her  name  up  i’  the  chapel, 

Nigh  unto  death ; 

See  how  she  fetches  at  the  thrapple, 

An’  gasps  for  breath! 

Enthusiasm’s  past  redemption, 

Gaen  in  a galloping  consumption, 

Not  a’  the  quacks,  wi’  a’  their  gumption, 

Will  ever  mend  her ; 

Her  feeble  pulse  gies  strong  presumption 
Death  soon  will  end  her. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  331 

’Tis  you  and  Taylor*  are  the  chief 
Wha  are  to  blame  for  this  mischief; 

But  gin  the  Lord’s  ain  focks  gat  leave, 

A toom  tar  barrel 

An’  twa  red  peats  wad  send  relief, 

An’  end  the  quarrel. 


A DEDICATION  TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  ESQ, 

Expect  na,  sir,  in  this  narration, 

A fleeching,  fleeth’rin’  dedication, 

To  rouse  you  up,  an’  ca’  you  guid, 

An’  sprung  o’  great  an’  noble  bluid, 

Because  ye’re  surnam’d  like  His  Grace, 
Perhaps  related  to  the  race; 

Then,  when  I’m  tir’d  — and  sae  are  ye, 

Wi’  monie  a fulsome,  sinfu’  lie, 

Set  up  a face,  how  I stop  short, 

For  fear  your  modesty  be  hurt. 

This  may  do  — maun  do,  sir,  wi’  them  wha 
Maun  please  the  great  folk  for  a wamefou ; 

For  me,  sae  laigh  I needna  bow, 

For,  Lord  be  thankit ! I can  plough ; 

And  when  I downa  yoke  a naig, 

Then,  Lord  be  thankit!  I can  beg; 

Sae  I shall  say,  an’  that’s  nae  flatt’rin’, 

It’s  just  sic  Poet,  an’  sic  Patron. 


* Dr.  Taylor,  of  Norwich 


332  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

The  Poet,  some  guid  angel  help  him, 
Or  else,  I fear  some  ill  ane  skelp  him, 

He  may  do  weel  for  a’  he’s  done  yet, 

But  only  he’s  no  just  begun  yet. 

The  Patron,  (Sir,  ye  maun  forgie  me, 

I winna  lie,  come  what  will  o’  me,) 

On  ev’ry  hand  it  will  allow’d  be, 

He’s  just  — nae  better  than  he  should  be. 

I readily  and  freely  grant, 

He  downa  see  a poor  man  want; 

What’s  no  his  ain  he  winna  tak  it, 

What  ance  he  says  he  winna  break  it ; 
Aught  he  can  lend  he’ll  no  refus’t, 

Till  aft  his  goodness  is  abus’d: 

And  rascals  whyles  that  do  him  wrang, 
Ev’n  that,  he  does  not  mind  it  lang: 

As  master,  landlord,  husband,  father, 

He  does  nae  fail  his  part  in  either. 

But  then,  nae  thanks  to  him  for  a’  that, 
Nae  godly  symptom  ye  can  ca’  that ; 

It’s  naething  but  a milder  feature 
Of  our  poor  sinfu’  corrupt  nature : 

Ye’ll  get  the  best  o’  moral  works, 

’Mang  black  Gentoos  and  pagan  Turks, 

Or  hunters  wild  on  Ponotaxi, 

Wha  never  heard  of  orthodoxy. 

That  lie’s  the  poor  man’s  friend  in  need, 
The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed, 

It’s  nae  thro’  terror  o’  damnation  : 

It’s  just  a carnal  inclination. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


333 


Morality ! thou  deadly  banc, 

Thy  tens  o’  thousands  thou  hast  slain! 

Vain  is  his  hope,  whose  stay  and  trust  is 
In  moral  mercy,  truth,  and  justice ! 

No  — stretch  a point  to  catch  a plack; 
Abuse  a brother  to  his  back; 

Steal  thro’  a winnock  frae  a wh-re, 

But  point  to  the  rake  that  takes  the  door; 

Be  to  the  poor  like  onie  whunstane. 

And  haud  their  noses  to  the  grunstane; 

Ply  ev’ry  art  o’  legal  thieving: 

No  matter,  stick  to  sound  believing. 

Learn  three-mile  prayers,  and  half-mile  graces, 
Wi’  weel-spread  looves,  an’  lang  wry  faces ; 
Grunt  up  a solemn,  lengthen’d  groan, 

And  damn  a’  parties  but  your  own: 

I’ll  warrant,  then,  ye’re  nae  deceiver, 

A steady,  sturdy,  staunch  believer. 

O ye  wha  leave  the  springs  of  C-lv-n, 

For  gumlie  duds  of  your  ain  delvin ! 

Ye  sons  of  heresy  and  error, 

Ye’ll  some  day  squeel  in  quakin  terror! 

When  Vengeance  draws  the  sword  in  wrath, 
And  in  the  fire  throws  the  sheath ; 

When  Ruin,  with  his  sweeping  besom, 

Just  frets  till  heav’n  commission  gies  him ; 
While  o’er  the  harp  pale  mis’ry  moans, 

And  strikes  the  ever-deep’ning  tones, 

Still  louder  shrieks,  and  heavier  groans ! 

Your  pardon,  Sir,  for  this  digression, 

I maist  forgot  my  Dedication! 


334  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

But  when  Divinity  comes  cross  me, 

My  readers  still  are  sure  to  lose  me. 

So,  Sir,  ye  see  ’twas  nae  daft  vapor, 
But  I maturely  thought  it  proper, 

When  a’  my  works  I did  review, 

To  dedicate  them,  Sir,  to  you ; 

Because  (ye  need  na  tak  it  ill) 

I thought  them  something  like  yoursel’. 

Then  patronize  them  wi’  your  favor, 
And  your  petitioner  shall  ever  — 

I had  amaist  said,  ever  pray , 

But  that’s  a word  I need  na  say ; 

For  prayin  I hae  little  skill  o’t; 

I’m  baith  dead-sweer,  an’  wretched  ill  o’t ; 
But  ise  repeat  each  poor  man’s  pray’r, 
That  kens  or  hears  about  you,  Sir : — 

“May  ne’er  misfortune’s  growling  bark, 
Howl  thro’  the  dwelling  o’  the  Clerk! 
May  ne’er  his  gen’rous,  honest  heart, 

For  that  same  gen’rous  spirit  smart! 

May  K ’s  far  honor’d  name, 

Lang  beet  his  hymeneal  flame, 

Till  H- s,  at  least  a dizen, 

Are  frae  their  nuptial  labors  risen ; 

Five  bonie  lasses  round  their  jable, 

And  seven  braw  fellows,  stout  an’  able 
To  serve  their  king  and  country  weel, 

By  word,  or  pen,  or  pointed  steel ! 

May  health  and  peace,  with  mutual  rays, 
Shine  on  the  evening  o’  his  days ; 

Till  his  wee  curlie  John’s  ier-oe 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  335 

When  ebbing  life  nae  mair  shall  flow, 

The  last,  sad  mournful  rites  bestow!” 

I will  not  wind  a lang  conclusion, 

Wi’  complimentary  effusion; 

But  whilst  your  wishes  and  endeavors 
Are  blest  wi’  fortune’s  smiles  and  favors, 

I am,  dear  Sir,  with  zeal  most  fervent, 

Your  much  indebted,  humble  servant. 

But  if  (which  powers  above  prevent)! 

That  iron-hearted  carl,  Want, 

Attended  in  his  grim  advances, 

By  sad  mistakes  and  black  mischances, 

While  hopes,  and  joys,  and  pleasures  fly  him, 
Make  you  as  poor  a dog  as  I am, 

Your  humble  servant  then  no  more ; 

For  who  would  humbly  serve  the  poor? 

But,  by  a poor  man’s  hopes  in  Heav’n! 

While  recollection’s  pow’r  is  given, 

If,  in  the  vale  of  humble  life, 

The  victim  sad  of  Fortune’s  strife, 

I,  thro’  the  tender  gushing  tear, 

Should  recognize  my  master  dear, 

If  friendless,  low,  we  meet  together, 

Then,  Sir,  your  hand  — my  friend  and  brother. 


336  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


LINES 

ADDRESSED  TO  MR.  JOHN  RANKEN. 

Ae  day,  as  death,  that  grousome  carl, 

Was  drivin’  to  the  tither  war? 

A mixtie-maxtie  motley  squad, 

And  monie  a guilt-bespotted  lad  ; 

Black  gowns  of  each  denomination, 

And  thieves  of  every  rank  and  station, 
From  him  that  wears  the  star  and  garter, 
To  him  that  wintles  in  a halter ; 

Asham’d  himself  to  see  the  wretches, 

He  mutters,  glow’ring  at  the  b es, 

“ Ay  G — , I’ll  not  be  seen  behint  them, 
Nor  ’mang  the  sp’ritual  corps  present  them, 
Without,  at  least,  ae  honest  man, 

To  grace  this  damn’d  infernal  clan.” 

By  Adamhill  a glance  he  threw, 

“L — d G — d!”  quoth  he,  “I  have  it  now; 
There’s  just  the  man  I want,  in  faith : ” 
And  quickly  stopped  Ranken’s  breath. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  337 


LINES 

WRITTEN  BY  BURNS,  WHILE  ON  HIS  DEATII-BED,  TO 
THE  SAME. 

He  who  of  Ranken  sang,  lies  stiff  and  dead, 

And  a green  grassy  hillock  hides  his  head ; 

Alas ! alas ! a devilish  change  indeed ! 


-*■ 


EXTEMPORE. 

[At  a meeting  of  the  Dumfriesshire  Volunteers,  held  to  commemo- 
rate the  anniversary  of  Rodney’s  victory,  April  12th,  17S2,  Bums  was 
called  upon  for  a song,  instead  of  which  he  delivered  the  following  lines 
extempore.] 

Instead  of  a song,  boys,  I’ll  give  you  a toast, — 
Here’s  the  memory  of  those  on  the  twelfth  that  we  lost ; 
That  we  lost,  did  I say  ? nay,  by  Heaven ! that  we 
found, 

For  their  fame  it  shall  last  while  the  world  goes 
round. 

The  next  in  succession,  I’ll  give  you  the  king; 
Whoe’er  would  betray  him,  on  high  may  he  swing : 
And  here’s  the  grand  fabric,  our  free  constitution, 

As  built  on  the  base  of  the  great  revolution; 

And,  longer  with  politics  not  to  be  cramm’d, 

Be  anarchy  curs’d,  and  be  tyranny  damn’d; 

And  who  would  to  liberty  e’er  prove  disloyal, 

May  his  son  be  a hangman,  and  he  the  first  trial. 

29 

J- 


338  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


EXTEMPORE, 

ON  THE  LATE  MR.  WILLIAM  SMELLIE. 

To  Crochallan  came  * 

The  old  cock’d  hat,  the  gray  surtout,  the  same ; 
His  bristling  beard  just  rising  in  its  might, 

’Twas  four  long  nights  and  days  to  shaving-night ; 
His  uncomb’d  grizzly  locks,  wild  staring,  thatch’d 
A head  for  thought  profound  and  clear,  unmatch’d 
Yet,  tho’  his  caustic  wit  was  biting,  rude, 

His  heart  was  warm,  benevolent,  and  good. 


TO  MR.  S**E, 

ON  REFUSING  TO  DINE  WITH  HIM,  AFTER  HAVING  BEEN 
PROMISED  THE  FIRST  OF  COMPANY,  AND  THE  FIRST 
COOKERY. 

No  more  of  your  guests,  be  they  titled  or  not, 

And  cook’ry  the  first  in  the  nation; 

Who  is  proof  to  thy  personal  converse  and  wit, 

Is  proof  to  all  other  temptation. 

December , 17,  1795. 


• Mr.  Smellie  and  Burns  were  both  members  of  a club  in  Edinburgh, 

called  tho  Crochallan  Fencibles. 


burns’s  POEMS.  339 


TO  MR.  S**E, 

WITH  A PRESENT  Of  A DOZEN  OF  TORTER. 

O had  the  malt  thy  strength  of  mind, 

Or  hops  the  flavor  of  thy  wit, 

’Twere  drink  for  first  of  human  kind, 

A gift  that  e’en  for  S##e  were  fit. 
Jerusalem  Tavern , Dumfries, 


EXTEMPORE, 

WRITTEN  IN  ANSWER  TO  A CARD  FROM  AN  INTIMATE 
OF  BURNS’S,  INVITING  HIM  TO  SPEND  AN  HOUR  AT 
A TAVERN. 

The  king’s  most  humble  servant, 

Can  scarcely  spare  a minute ; 

But  I’ll  be  wi’  ye,  by-an’-by, 

Or  else  the  Deil’s  be  in  it. 


340 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


EXTEMPORE, 

WRITTEN  IN  A LADY’S  POCKET-BOOK. 

Grant  me,  indulgent  Heav’n!  that  I may  live 
To  see  the  miscreants  feel  the  pains  they  give; 
Deal  Freedom’s  sacred  treasures  free  as  air, 

Till  slave  and  despot  be  but  things  which  were. 


LINES 

ON  MISS  J.  SCOTT,  OF  AYR. 

On!  had  each  Scot  of  ancient  times, 
Been  Jeany  Scott,  as  thou  art, 

The  bravest  heart  on  English  ground, 
Ilad  yielded  like  a coward. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  UNDER  THE  PICTURE  OF  THE  CELEBRATED 
MISS  BURNS. 

Cease,  ye  prudes,  your  envious  railing, 

Lovely  Burns  has  charms  — confess ! 

True  it  is,  she  had  one  failing ; 

Had  a woman  ever  less? 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  34] 


LINES, 

ON  BEING  ASKED  WHY  GOD  HAD  MADE  MISS  DAVIS  SO 

LITTLE,  AND  MISS  SO  LARGE;  — WRITTEN  ON 

A PANE  OF  GLASS,  IN  THE  INN  AT  MOFFAT. 

Ask  why  God  made  the  gem  so  small, 

And  why  so  huge  the  granite ! 

Because  God  meant  mankind  should  set 
The  higher  value  on  it. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  AND  PRESENTED  TO  MRS.  KEMBLE,  ON  SEE- 
ING HER  IN  THE  CHARACTER  OF  YARICO. 

Kemble,  thou  cur’st  my  unbelief 
Of  Moses  and  his  rod ; 

At  Yarico’s  sweet  notes  of  grief, 

The  rock  with  tears  had  flow’d1 
Dumfries  Theatre , 1794. 

29* 


342 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  ON  WINDOWS  OF  THE  GLOBE  TAVERN* 
DUMFRIES. 

The  graybeard,  old  Wisdom,  may  boast  of  his  treas- 
ures, 

Give  me  with  gay  Folly  to  live  ; 

I grant  him  his  calm-blooded,  time-settled  pleasures, 
But  Folly  has  raptures  to  give. 


I murder  hate  by  field  or  flood, 

Tho’  glory’s  name  may  screen  us; 

In  wars  at  hame  I’ll  spend  my  bW*d  — 
Life-giving  war  of  Venus. 

The  deities  that  I adore, 

Are  social  Peace  and  Plenty: 

I’m  better  pleas’d  to  make  one  more 
Than  be  the  death  of  twenty. 


My  bottle  is  my  holy  pool, 

That  heals  the  wounds  o’  care  and  dooj 
And  pleasure  is  a wanton  trout, 

An’  ye  drink  it,  ye’ll  find  him  out. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  343 

In  politico  if  thou  would’st  mix, 

And  mean  thy  fortunes  be; 

Bear  this  in  mind  — be  deaf  and  blind  — 

Let  great  folks  hear  and  see. 


$ 

LINES 

WRITTEN  ON  A WINDOW,  AT  THE  KING’s-ARMS  TAVERN, 
DUMFRIES. 

Ye  men  of  wit  and  wealth,  wi’  a’  this  sneering 
Gainst  poor  Excisemen,  give  the  cause  a hearing: 
What  are  your  landlord’s  rent-rolls  ? taxing  legers : 
What  premiers,  what  ? even  Monarch’s  mighty  gaugers : 
Nay,  what  are  priests  ? those  seeming  godly  wise  men 
What  are  they,  pray  ? but  spiritual  Excisemen. 


A VERSE, 

presented  by  the  author,  to  the  master  of  a 

HOUSE,  AT  A PLACE  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS,  WHERE  IIE 
HAD  BEEN  HOSPITABLY  ENTERTAINED. 

When  Death’s  dark  stream  I ferry  o’er  — 

A time  that  surely  shall  come; 

In  Heaven  itself,  I’ll  ask  no  more, 

Than  just  a Highland  welcome. 


344 


BURNS  S POEMS, 


EPIGRAM. 


I 


[Burns,  accompanied  by  a friend,  having  gone  to  Inverary  at  a time 
when  some  company  were  there  on  a visit  to  the  Duke  of  Argyll,  finding 
himself  and  his  companion  entirely  neglected  by  the  innkeeper,  whose 
whole  attention  seemed  to  be  occupied  with  the  visiters  of  his  Grace, 
expressed  his  disapprobation  of  the  incivility  with  which  they  were 
treated,  in  the  following  lines.] 


Wiioe’er  he  be  that  sojourns  here, 

I pity  much  his  case, 

Unless  he  comes  to  wait  upon 
The  Lord  their  God  his  Grace. 

There’s  naething  here  but  Highland  pride, 
And  Highland  scab  and  hunger ; 

If  Providence  has  sent  me  here, 

’Tvvas  surely  in  an  anger. 


ON  ELrHINSTONE’s  TRANSLATION  OF  MARTIAL’S  EPI< 


O thou  whom  Poetry  abhors, 

Whom  Prose  has  turned  out  of  doors, 

Heard’st  thou  that  groan?  — proceed  no  further, 
’Twas  laurell’d  Martial  roaring,  Murder ! 


0 


EPIGRAM 


GRAMS, 


burns’s  TOEMS.  345 


VERSES 

WRITTEN  ON  A WINDOW  OF  THE  INN  AT  CARRON 

We  cam  na  here  to  view  your  warks, 

In  hopes  to  be  mail*  wise, 

But  only  lest  we  gang  to  hell, 

It  may  be  nae  surprise : 

But  when  we  tirled  at  your  door, 

Your  porter  dought  na  hear  us ; 

Sae  may,  should  we  to  hell’s  yetts  come, 
Your  billy  Satan  sair  us ! 


EPITAPH 

ON  A CELEBRATED  RULING  ELDER. 

Here  souter  ###*  in  death  does  sleep; 

To  h— 11,  if  he’s  gane  thither, 

Satan,  gie  him  thy  gear  to  keep ! 

He’ll  haud  it  weel  thegither. 


346 


BURNS  a POEMS. 


ON  A NOISY  POLEMIC. 

Below  thir  stanes  lie  Jamie’s  banes: 

O Death!  it’s  my  opinion, 

Thou  ne’er  took  such  a bleth’rin’  b-tch 
Into  thy  dark  dominion ! 


ON  WEE  JOHNNY 

Hie  jacet  wee  Johnnie. 


Wiioe’er  thou  art,  O reader,  know 
That  Death  has  murder’d  Johnny ! 
An’  here  his  body  lies  fu’  low  — 
For  saul,  he  ne’er  had  ony. 


FOR  G.  II.,  ESQ. 

The  poor  man  weeps  — here  G n sleeps, 

Whom  canting  wretches  blam’d : 

But  with  such  as  he,  where’er  ho  be, 

May  I be  sav’d  or  damn’d  ! 


BURNS  S POEMS.  347 


ON  A WAG  IN  MAUCHLINE. 

Lament  him,  Mauchline  husbands  a’, 
He  aften  did  assist  ye : 

For  had  ye  staid  whole  weeks  awa’, 
Your  wives,  they  ne’er  had  miss’d  ye. 

Ye  Mauchline  bairns,  as  on  ye  pass 
To  school  in  bands  thegither, 

O tread  ye  lightly  on  the  grass,  — 
Perhaps  he  was  your  father! 


ON  JOHN  DOVE, 

INN-KEEPER,  MAUCHLINE. 

Here  lies  Johnny  Pidgeon; 

What  was  his  religion, 

Whae’er  desires  to  ken, 

To  some  other  warl’ 

Maun  follow  the  carl, 

For  here  Johnny  Pidgeon  had  nane. 

Strong  ale  was  ablution, 

Small  beer  persecution, 

A dram  was  memento  mori ; 

But  a full  flowing  bowl 
Was  the  saving  his  soul, 

And  Port  was  celestial  glory. 


348  burns’s  poems. 


ON  WALTER  S , 

Sic  a reptile  was  Wat, 

Sic  a miscreant  slave, 

That  the  worms  even  d d him, 

When  laid  in  his  grave. 

“In  his  flesh  there’s  a famine,” 

A starv’d  reptile  cries  ; 

“ And  his  heart  is  rank  poison,” 
Another  replies. 


ON  A HENPECKED  COUNTRY  SQUIRE, 

As  father  Adam  first  was  fool’d, 

A case  that’s  still  too  common, 

Here  lies  a man  a woman  rul’d  — 

The  Devil  rul’d  the  woman1 


EPIGRAM  ON  SAID  OCCASION. 

O Death!  hadst  thou  but  spar’d  his  life, 
Whom  we  this  day  lament! 

We  freely  wad  exchang’d  the  wife, 
And  a’  been  weel  content. 


BURNSES  POEMS.  349 

Ev’n  as  he  is,  cauld  in  his  graff, 

The  swap  we  yet  will  do’t; 

Tak  thou  the  Carlin’s  carcass  aff, — 

Thou’se  get  the  saul  o’  boot! 


ANOTHER. 

One  Queen  Artemisa,  as  old  stories  tell, 

When  depriv’d  of  her  husband  she  loved  so  well, 

In  respect  for  the  love  and  affection  he’d  show’d 
her, 

She  reduc’d  him  to  dust,  and  she  drank  up  the  pow- 
der. 

But  Queen  N#####*#,  of  a diff’rent  complexion, 
When  call’d  on  to  order  the  fun’ral  direction, 

Would  have  eat  her  dead  lord,  on  a slender  pre- 
tence, — 

Not  to  show  her  respect,  but  — to  save  the  ex- 
pense ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A LAP-DOG  NAMED  ECHO. 

In  wood  and  wild,  ye  warbling  throng, 

Your  heavy  loss  deplore; 

Now  half  extinct  your  pow’rs  of  song, 

Sweet  Echo  is  no  more ! 

30 


350  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Yc  jarring,  screeching  things  around, 
Scream  your  discordant  joys ; 

Now  half  your  din  of  tuneless  sound 
With  Echo  silent  lies. 


IMPROMPTU  ON  MRS.  ’S  BIRTH-DAY, 

4TH  NOVEMBER,  1793. 

Old  Winter,  with  his  frosty  beard, 

Thus  once  to  Jove  his  prayer  preferr’d: 
What  have  I done,  of  all  the  year, 

To  bear  this  hated  doom  severe  ? 

My  cheerless  sons  no  pleasure  know ; 

Night’s  horrid  car  drags  dreary,  slow; 

My  dismal  months  no  joys  are  crowning, 

But  spleeny  English,  hanging,  drowning. 

Now,  Jove,  for  once,  be  mighty  civil; 

To  counterbalance  all  this  evil, 

Give  me,  and  I’ve  no  more  to  say, 

Give  me  Maria’s  natal  day! 

That  brilliant  gift  will  so  enrich  me, 

Spring,  Summer,  Autumn,  cannot  match  me. 
’Tis  done,  says  Jove;  — so  ends  my  story 
And  Winter  once  rejoic’d  in  glory. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


351 


jfr 


MONODY, 

ON  A LADY  FAMED  FOR  HER  CAPRICE. 

IIow  cold  is  that  bosom  which  folly  once  fir’d! 

How  pale  is  that  cheek  where  the  rouge  lately 
glisten’d ! 

How  silent  that  tongue  which  the  echoes  oft  tir’d! 
How  dull  is  that  ear  which  to  flatt’ry  so  listen’d! 

If  sorrow  and  anguish  their  exit  await, 

From  friendship  and  dearest  affection  remov’d; 

How  doubly  severer,  Eliza,  thy  fate, 

Thou  diest  unwept,  as  thou  lived’st  unlov’d. 

Loves,  Graces,  and  Virtues,  I call  not  on  you ; 

So  shy,  grave,  and  distant,  ye  shed  not  a tear. 

But  come,  all  ye  offspring  of  Folly  so  true, 

And  flow’rs  let  us  cull  for  Eliza’s  cold  bier. 

We’ll  search  thro’  the  garden  for  each  silly  flower, 
We’ll  roam  thro’  the  forest  for  each  idle  weed  ; 

But  chiefly  the  nettle,  so  typical,  shower, 

For  none  e’er  approach’d  her  but  ru’d  the  rash  deed. 

We’ll  sculpture  the  marble,  we’ll  measure  the  lay, 
Here  Vanity  strums  on  her  idiot  lyre; 

There  keen  Indignation  shall  dart  on  her  prey, 

Which  spurning  Contempt  shall  redeem  from  his  ire, 


L 


352  BURNSES  POEMS. 


THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  lies,  now  a prey  to  insulting  neglect, 

What  once  was  a butterfly,  gay  in  life’s  beam, 
Want  only  of  wisdom  denied  her  respect, 

Want  only  of  goodness  denied  her  esteem. 


ODE, 

SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MRS.  OF 

Dweller  in  yon  dungeon  dark, 
Hangman  of  creation!  mark 
Who  in  widow-weeds  appears, 

Laden  with  unhonor’d  years, 

Noosing  with  care  a bursting  purse, 
Baited  with  many  a deadly  curse! 


STROPHE. 

View  the  wither’d  beldam’s  face ; 

Can  thy  keen  inspection  trace 

Aught  of  humanity’s  sweet,  melting  grace  t 

Note  that  eye,  ’tis  rheum  o’erflows, 

Pity’s  flood  there  never  rose. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  353 

See  those  hands,  ne’er  stretch’d  to  save, 

Hands  that  took  — but  never  gave. 

Keeper  of  Mammon’s  iron  chest, 

Lo!  there  she  goes,  unpitied  and  unblest! 

She  goes,  but  not  to  realms  of  everlasting  rest ! 


ANTISTROPHE. 

Plund’rer  of  armies,  lift  thine  eyes, 

(Awhile  forbear,  ye  tott’ring  fiends !) 

Seest  thou  whose  step  unwilling  hither  bends  ? 
No  fallen  angel,  hurl’d  from  upper  skies ; 

’Tis  thy  trusty  quondam  mate, 

Doom’d  to  share  thy  fiery  fate, 

She,  tardy,  hellward  plies. 


EPODE. 

And  are  they  of  no  more  avail, 

Ten  thousand  glitt’ring  pounds  a year? 

In  other  worlds  can  Mammon  fail, 

Omnipotent  as  he  is  here? 

O,  bitter  mock’ry  of  the  pompous  bier, 

While  down  the  wretched  vital  part  is  drivn! 
The  cave-lodg’d  beggar,  with  a conscience  clear, 
Expires  in  rags,  unknown,  and  goes  to  heav’n 
30* 


354  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


THE  HEN-PECKED  HUSBAND. 

Curs’d  be  the  man,  the  poorest  wretch  in  life, 
The  crouching  vassal  to  the  tyrant  wife, 

Who  has  no  will  but  by  her  high  permission, 
Who  has  not  sixpence  but  in  her  possession ; 
Who  must  to  her  his  dear  friend’s  secret  tell, 
Who  dreads  a curtain  lecture  worse  than  hell. 
Were  such  the  wife  had  fallen  to  my  part, 

I’d  break  her  spirit,  or  I’d  break  her  heart ; 

I’d  charm  her  with  the  magic  of  a switch, 

I’d  kiss  her  maids,  and  kick  the  perverse  b — lu 


ELEGY  ON  THE  YEAR  1783. 

For  lords  or  kings  I dinna  mourn, 

E’en  let  them  die  — for  that  they’re  born! 
But,  oh!  prodigious  to  reflect, 

A Towmont,  sirs,  is  gane  to  wreck! 

O Eighty-eight ! in  thy  sma’  space 
What  dire  events  hae  taken  place! 

Of  what  enjoyment  thou  hast  reft  us  ! 

In  what  a pickle  thou  hast  left  us ! 

The  Spanish  empire’s  tint  a head, 

An’  my  auld  teethless  Bawtie’s  dead; 


BURNS  S POEMS. 


355 


The  toolzie’s  teugh  ’tween  Pitt  and  Fox, 

An’  our  guidwife’s  wee  birdy-cocks ; 

The  ane  is  game,  a bluidy  devil, 

But  to  the  hen-birds  unco  civil; 

The  tither’s  dour,  has  nae  sic  breedin’, 

But  better  stuff  ne’er  claw’d  a midden ! 

Ye  ministers,  come,  mount  the  pulpit f 
An’  cry  till  ye  be  hoarse  an’  rupit; 

For  Eighty-eight,  he  wish’d  you  weel, 

An’  gied  you  a’  baith  gear  an  meal : 

E’en  monie  a plack,  an’  monie  a peck, 

Ye  ken  yoursels,  for  little  feck ! 

Ye  bonie  lasses,  dight  your  een, 

For  some  o’  you  hae  tint  a frien’ ; 

In  Eighty-eight,  ye  ken,  was  taen 
What  ye’ll  ne’er  hae  to  gie  again! 

Observe  the  very  nowt  an’  sheep, 

IIow  dowff  an’  dowie  now  they  creep ; 

Nay,  ev’n  the  yirth  itsel’  does  cry, 

For  Embro’  wells  are  grutten  dry. 

O Eighty-nine ! thou’s  but  a bairn, 

An’  no  owre  auid,  I hope,  to  learn ! 

Thou  beardless  boy,  I pray  tak  care, 

Thou  now  has  got  thy  daddy’s  chair, 

Nae  hand-cuff’d,  muzzl’d,  half-shackl’d  regeit, 
But,  like  himself,  a full,  free  agent: 

Be  sure  ye  follow  out  the  plan 
Nae  waur  than  he  did,  honest  man! 

As  muckle  better  as  you  can. 

January  1,  1789. 


* ' 

356  burns’s  roEMs. 


TAM  SAMSON’S # ELEGY. 

An  honest  man’s  the  noblest  work  of  God. 

Pom. 

Has  auld  K seen  the  Deil? 

Or  great  M f thrawn  his  heel  ? 

Or  R J again  grown  wcel, 

To  preach  an’  read? 

“ Na,  waur  than  a’ ! ” cries  like  a chiel, 
Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

K — lang  may  grunt  an’  grane, 

An’  sigh,  an’  sab,  an’  greet  her  lane, 

An’  deed  her  bairns,  man,  wife,  an’  wean, 
In  mourning  weed  ; 

To  death  she’s  dearly  paid  the  kane : 

Tam  Samson’s  dead  ! 

The  brethren  of  the  mystic  level, 

May  hing  their  head  in  wofu’  bevel, 

While  by  the  nose  the  tears  will  revel, 
Like  onie  bead; 

Death’s  gien  the  lodge  an  unco  devel: 
Tam  Samson’s  dead! 


* When  this  worthy  old  sportsman  went  out  last  muir-fowl  season,  lie 
supposed  it  was  to  be,  in  Ossian’s  phrase,  “ the  last  of  his  fields ; ” and 
expressed  an  ardent  wish  to  die  and  be  buried  in  the  muirs.  On  this 
hint,  the  author  composed  his  Elegy  and  Epitaph. 

f A certain  preacher,  a great  favorite  with  the  million.  Vide  the  Or- 
dination, stanza  ii. 

t Another  preacher,  an  equal  favorite  with  the  few,  who  was  at  that 
time  ailing.  For  him,  see  also  the  Ordination,  stanza  ix. 


BURNS  S POEMS.  357 

When  Winter  muffles  up  his  cloak, 

And  binds  the  mire  up  like  a rock ; 

When  to  the  loughs  the  curlers  flock, 

Wi’  gleesome  speed, 

Wha  will  they  station  at  the  cock? 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

He  was  the  king  o’  a’  the  core, 

To  guard,  or  draw,  or  wick  a bore, 

Or  up  the  rink  like  Jehu  roar, 

In  time  of  need  ; 

But  now  he  lags  on  death’s  hog-score . 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

Now  safe  the  stately  sawmont  sail, 

And  trouts  bedropp’d  wi’  crimson  hail, 

And  eels  well  kenn’d  for  souple  tail, 

And  geds  for  greed, 

Since  dark  in  Death’s  fish-creel  we  wail 
Tam  Samson  dead ! 

Rejoice,  ye  birring  paitricks  a’; 

Ye  cootie  muircocks,  crousely  craw ; 

Ye  maukins,  cock  your  fud  fu’  braw, 
Withouten  dread ; 

Your  mortal  fae  is  now  awa’ : 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

That  wofu’  morn  be  ever  mourn’d, 

Saw  him  in  shootin’  graith  adorn’d, 

While  pointers  round  impatient  burn’d, 

Frae  couples  freed ; 

But,  och ! he  gaed,  and  ne’er  returned  t 
Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 


358  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

In  vain  auld  age  his  body  batters; 

In  vain  the  gout  his  ancles  fetters ! 

In  vain  the  burns  come  down  like  waters 
An  acre  braid ! 

Now  every  auld  wife,  greetin,  clatters, 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

Owre  many  a weary  hag  he  limpit, 

An’  ay  the  tither  shot  he  thumpit, 

Till  coward  Death  behind  him  jumpit, 

Wi’  deadly  feide ; 

Now  he  proclaims,  wi’  tout  o’  trumpet, 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

When  at  his  heart  he  felt  the  dagger 

He  reel’d  his  wonted  bottle-swagger, 

But  yet  he  drew  the  mortal  trigger 
Wi’  weel-aim’d  deed ; 

“ L — d,  five ! ” he  cried,  an’  owre  did  stagger : 
Tam  Samson’s  dead! 

Ilk  hoary  hunter  mourn’d  a brither ; 

Ilk  sportsman  youth  bemoan’d  a father ; 

Yon  auld  gray  stane,  amang  the  heather, 
Marks  out  his  head, 

Wliare  Burns  has  wrote,  in  rhyming  blether, 
Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

There  low  he  lies,  in  lasting  rest; 

Perhaps  upon  his  mould’ring  breast 

Some  spitefu’  muirfowl  bigs  her  nest, 

To  hatch  an’  breed; 

Alas ! nae  mair  he’d  them  molest ! 

Tam  Samson’s  dead1 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


359 


When  August  winds  the  heather  wave, 
And  sportsmen  wander  by  yon  grave, 
Three  volleys  let  his  mem’ry  crave 
O’  pouther  an’  lead; 

Till  Echo  answer  frae  her  cave, 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

Heav’n  rest  his  saul,  where’er  he  be! 

Is  the  wish  o’  monie  mae  than  me: 

He  had  twa  faults,  or  may  be  three, 

Yet  what  remead  ? 

Ae  social  honest  man  want  we ; 

Tam  Samson’s  dead! 
############ 


THE  EPITAPH. 

Tam  Samson’s  weel-born  clay  here  lies; 

Ye  canting  zealots  spare  him ! 

If  honest  worth  in  heaven  rise, 

Ye’ll  mend  or  ye  won  near  him. 


360  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


PER  CONTRA. 

Go,  Fame,  and  canter  like  a filly 
Thro’  a’  the  streets  an’  neuks  o’  Killie ; * 
Tell  ev’ry  social,  honest  billie 

To  cease  his  grievin’, 

For  yet,  unskaith’d  by  death’s  gleg  gullie, 
Tam  Samson’s  livin’. 


ELEGY  ON  CAPTAIN  MATTHEW  HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN  WHO  HELD  THE  PATENT  FOR  HIS  HONOR 
IMMEDIATELY  FROM  ALMIGHTY  GOD. 

But  now  his  radiant  course  is  run, 

For  Matthew’s  course  was  bright ; 

His  soul  was  like  the  glorious  sun, 

A matchless,  heavenly  light ! 

O Death!  thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody! 

The  muckle  devil  wi’  a woo  die 
Ilaurl  thee  hame  to  his  black  smiddie, 

O’er  hurcheon  hides, 

And  like  stock-fish  come  o’er  his  studdie 
Wi’  thy  auld  sides! 


* Kilmarnock. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  361 

He’s  gane,  he’s  gane!  he’s  frae  us  torn, 

The  ae  best  fellow  e’er  was  born! 

Thee,  Matthew,  Nature’s  self  shall  mourn, 

By  wood  and  wild, 

Where,  haply,  Pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exil’d. 

Ye  hills,  near  neebors  o’  the  starns, 

That  proudly  cock  your  cresting  cairns! 

Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns, 

Where  Echo  slumbers! 

Come,  join,  ye  Nature’s  sturdiest  bairns, 

My  wailing  numbers ! 

Mourn  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens  ! 

Ye  haz’lly  shaws  and  briery  dens! 

Ye  burnies,  wimplin’  down  your  glens, 

Wi’  toddlin’  din, 

Or  foaming  strang,  wi’  hasty  stens, 

Frae  lin  to  lin. 

Mourn,  little  harebells  o’er  the  lee; 

Ye  stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see; 

Ye  woodbines  hanging  bonilie, 

In  scented  bow’rs ; 

Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree, 

The  first  o’  flow’rs 

At  dawn,  when  ev’ry  glassy  blade 

Droops  with  a diamond  at  his  head, 

At  ev’n,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed 
I’  the  rustling  gale, 

Ye  maukins  whiddin  thro’  the  glade, 

Come,  join  my  wail. 


3G2  BUKNs’s  POEMS.' 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o’  the  wood ; 
Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud; 
Ye  curlews  calling  thro’  a clud ; 

Ye  whistling  plover; 

And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  br*^jd ; 
He’s  gane  for  ever: 

Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  iryjia, 
Ye  fisher  herons  watching  eels ! 

Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi’  airy  wheels, 
Circling  the  lake; 

Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Rair  for  his  sake! 

Mourn,  clam’ring  craiks,  at  close  o’  d' 
’Mang  fields  o’  flow’ring  clover  gay ; 
And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 
Frae  our  cauld  shore, 

Tell  thae  far  warlds,  wha  lies  in  cl^y 
Wham  we  deplore. 

Yc  houlets,  frae  your  ivy  bow’r, 

In  some  auld  tree,  or  eldritch  tow y. 
What  time  the  moon,  wi’  silent  g?  /v’r, 
Sets  up  her  horn, 

Wail  thro’  the  dreary  midnight  lnwif, 
Till  waukrife  morn ! 

O rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains! 

Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty  strains : 
But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 
But  tales  of  wo  P 

And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 
Maun  ever  flow. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  363 

Mourn  Spring*,  thou  darling  of  the  year, 

Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep  a tear; 

Thou,  Simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 
Shoots  up  its  head, 

Thy  gay,  green,  flow’ry  tresses  shear, 

For  him  that’s  dead! 

Thou,  Autumn,  wi’  thy  yellow  hair, 

In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear ! 

Thou,  Winter,  hurling  thro’  the  air 
The  roaring  blast, 

Wide  o’er  the  naked  world  declare 
The  worth  we’ve  lost. 

Mourn  him,  thou  Sun,  great  source  of  light ! 

Mourn,  Empress  of  the  silent  night! 

And  you,  ye  twinkling  starries  bright, 

My  Matthew  mourn! 

For  thro’  your  orbs  he’s  taen  his  flight, 

Ne’er  to  return. 

O Henderson ! the  man ! the  brother ! 

And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  for  ever  ? 

And  hast  thou  cross’d  that  unknown  river, 

Life’s  dreary  bound  ? 

Like  thee,  where  shall  I find  another, 

The  warld  around  ? 

Go  to  your  sculptur’d  tombs,  ye  great, 

In  a’  the  tinsel  trash  o’  state ! 

But  by  thy  honest  turf  I’ll  wait, 

Thou  man  of  worth ! 

And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow’s  fate 
E’er  lay  in  earth. 


364 

BURNS’S  POEMS. 

♦ 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Stop,  passenger,  my  story’s  brief; 

And  truth  I shall  relate,  man ; 

I tell  na  common  tale  o’  grief, 

For  Matthew  was  a great  man. 

If  thou  uncommon  merit  hast, 

Yet  spurn’d  at  Fortune’s  door,  man; 
A look  of  pity  hither  cast, 

For  Matthew  was  a poor  man. 

If  thou  a nobler  sodger  art, 

That  passest  by  this  grave,  man, 
There  moulders  here  a gallant  heart, 
For  Matthew  was  a brave  man. 

If  thou  on  men,  their  works  and  ways, 
Canst  throw  uncommon  light,  man; 
Here  lies  wha  weel  had  won  thy  praise, 
For  Matthew  was  a bright  man. 

If  thou  at  friendship’s  sacred  ca’ 
Wad  life  itself  resign,  man; 
Thy  sympathetic  tear  maun  fa’, 
For  Matthew  was  a kind  man. 

If  thou  art  staunch,  without  a stain, 
Like  the  unchanging  blue,  man! 
This  was  a kinsman  o’  thy  ain, 

For  Matthew  was  a true  man. 

burins’s  poems.  365 

If  thou  hast  wit,  and  fun,  and  fire, 

And  ne’er  guid  wine  did  fear,  man; 

This  was  thy  billie,  dam,  and  sire 
For  Matthew  was  a queer  man. 

If  onie  whiggish,  whingin  sot, 

To  blame  poor  Matthew  dare,  man; 

May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  lot, 

For  Matthew  was  a rare  man. 


ON  A SCOTCH  BARD, 

GONE  TO  THE  WEST  INDIES. 

A’  ye  wha  live  by  soups  o’  drink, 

A’  ye  wha  live  by  crambo-clink, 

A’  ye  wha  live,  and  never  think, 
Come  mourn  wi’  me  I 
Our  billie’s  gien  us  a’  the  jink, 

An’  owre  the  sea. 

Lament  him,  a’  ye  rantin’  core, 

Wha  dearly  like  a random  splore, 

Nae  mair  he’ll  join  the  merry  roar, 

In  social  key; 

For  now  he’s  taen  anither  shore, 

An’  owre  the  sea. 

The  bonie  lasses  weel  may  wiss  him, 
And  in  their  dear  petitions  place  him: 
31* 


3G6  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

The  widows,  wives,  an’  a’  may  bless  him, 
Wi’  tearfu’  e’e ; 

For  weel  I wat  they’ll  sairly  miss  him 
That’s  owre  the  sea. 

O Fortune ! they  hae  room  to  grumble ! 

Hadst  thou  taen  aff  some  drowsy  bummle, 

Wha  can  do  nought  but  fyke  an’  fumble, 
’Twad  been  nae  plea; 

But  he  was  gleg  as  onie  wumble, 

That’s  owre  the  sea. 

Auld,  cantie  Kyle  may  weepers  wear, 

An’  stain  them  wi’  the  saut,  saut  tear; 

’Twill  make  her  poor  auld  heart,  I fear, 

In  flinders  flee ; 

He  was  her  laureate  monie  a year, 

That’s  owre  the  sea. 

He  saw  misfortune’s  cauld  nor-west 

Lang  must’ring  up  a bitter  blast; 

A jillet  brak  his  heart  at  last, 

111  may  she  be ! 

So,  took  a birth  afore  the  mast, 

An’  owre  the  sea. 

To  tremble  under  Fortune’s  cummock, 

On  scarce  a belly-fu’  o’  drummock, 

Wi’  his  proud,  independent  stomach, 

Could  ill  agree ; 

So,  row’t  his  hurdies  in  a hammock, 

An’  owre  the  sea. 

He  ne’er  was  gien  to  great  misguiding, 

Yet  coin  his  pouches  wan  na  bide  in; 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  367 

Wi’  him  it  ne’er  was  under  hiding*, 

He  dealt  it  free: 

The  Muse  was  a’  that  he  took  pride  in, 

That’s  owre  the  sea. 

Jamaica  bodies,  use  him  weel, 

An’  hap  him  in  a cozie  biel : 

Ye’ll  find  him  ay  a dainty  chiel, 

An’  fou  o’  glee ; 

He  wad  na  wrang’d  the  vera  Deil, 

That’s  owre  the  sea. 

Fareweel,  my  rhyme-composing  billie ! 

Your  native  soil  was  right  ill-willie, 

But  may  ye  flourish  like  a lily, 

Now  bonilie ! 

I’ll  toast  ye  in  my  hindmost  gillie, 

Tho’  o’er  the  sea. 


ON  PASTORAL  POETRY. 

Hail,  Poesie  ! thou  nymph  reserv’d ! 

In  chase  o’  thee,  what  crowds  hae  swerv’d 
Frae  common  sense,  or  sunk  enerv’d 
’Mang  heaps  o’  clavers; 

And  och!  o’er  aft  thy  joes  hae  starv’d, 
’Mid  a’  thy  favors! 

Say,  Lassie,  why  thy  train  amang, 

While  loud  the  trump’s  heroic  clang 


368  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Anc  sock  or  buskin  skelp  alang 

To  death  or  marriage ; 

Scarce  ane  has  tried  the  shepherd-sang 
But  wi’  miscarriage  ? 

In  Homer’s  craft  Jock  Milton  thrives; 

Eschylus’  pen  Will  Shakspeare  drives; 

Wee  Pope,  the  knurlin  till  him  rives 
Horatian  fame  : 

In  thy  sweet  sang,  Barbauld,  survives 
Ev’n  Sappho’s  flame. 

But  thee,  Theocritus ! wha  matches  ? 

They’re  no  herd’s  ballats,  Maro’s  catches: 

Squire  Pope  but  busks  his  skinlin  patches 
O’  heathen  tatters : 

I pass  by  hunders,  nameless  wretches, 
That  ape  their  betters. 

In  this  braw  age  o’  wit  and  lear, 

Will  nane  the  Shepherd’s  whistle  mair 

Blaw  sweetly  in  its  native  air, 

And  rural  grace ; 

And  wi’  the  far-fam’d  Grecian,  share 
A rival  place? 

Yes ! there  is  ane,  a Scottish  callan ! 

There’s  ane  ; — come  forrit,  honest  Allan ! 

Thou  need  na  jouk  beliint  the  hallan, 

A chiel  sae  clever; 

The  teeth  o’  Time  may  gnaw  Tamtallan, 
But  thou’s  for  ever. 

Thou  paints  auld  Nature  to  the  nines, 

In  thy  sweet  Caledonian  lines ; 


1 — 

BURNS’S  POEMS.  369 

Nae  gowden  stream  thro’  myrtles  twines, 
Where  Philomel, 

While  nightly  breezes  sweep  the  vines, 
Her  griefs  will  tell! 

In  gowany  glens  thy  burnie  strays, 

Where  bonie  lasses  bleach  their  claes ; 

Or  trots  by  haz’lly  shaws  and  braes, 

Wi’  hawthorns  gray, 

Where  blackbirds  join  the  shepherd’s  lays, 
At  close  o’  day. 

Thy  rural  loves  are  Nature’s  sel’; 

Nae  bombast  spates  o’  nonsense  swell; 
Nae  snap  conceits,  but  that  sweet  spell 
O’  witchin’  love, 

That  charm  that  can  the  strongest  quell, 
The  sternest  move. 

PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN  AT  THE  THEATRE,  ELLISLAND,  ON  NEW-YEAB 
DAY  EVENING. 

No  song  nor  dance  I bring  from  yon  great  city 
That  queens  it  o’er  our  taste  — the  more’s  the  pity ! 
Tho’,  by  the  by,  abroad  why  will  you  roam  ? 

Good  sense  and  taste  are  natives  here  at  home. 

But  not  for  panegyric  I appear, 

I come  to  wish  ycfti  all  a good  new-year ! 

370  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Old  Father  Time  deputes  me  here  before  ye, 

Not  for  to  preach,  but  tell  his  simple  story  : 

The  sage,  grave  Ancient  cough’d,  and  bade  me  say 
“You’re  one  year  older  this  important  day:” 

If  wiser,  too  — he  hinted  some  suggestion, 

But  ’twould  be  rude,  you  know,  to  ask  the  question; 
And,  with  a would-be  roguish  leer  and  wink, 

He  bade  me  on  you  press  this  one  word  — “ think ! ” 

Ye  sprightly  youths,  quite  flush  with  hope  and  spirit. 
Who  think  to  storm  the  world  by  dint  of  merit, 

To  you  the  Dotard  has  a deal  to  say, 

In  his  sly,  dry,  sententious,  proverb  way ! 

He  bids  you  mind,  amid  your  thoughtless  rattle, 

That  the  first  blow  is  ever  half  the  battle: 

That,  tho’  some  by  the  skirt  may  try  to  snatch  him, 
Yet  by  the  forelock  is  the  hold  to  catch  him : 

That,  whether  doing,  suffering,  or  forbearing, 

You  may  do  miracles  by  persevering. 

Last,  tho’  not  least,  in  love,  ye  youthful  fair, 
Angelic  forms,  high  Heav’n’s  peculiar  care! 

To  you  auld  Bald-pate  smoothes  his  wrinkled  brow, 
And  humbly  begs  you’ll  mind  the  important  — now! 
To  crown  your  happiness  he  asks  your  leave, 

And  offers,  bliss  to  give  and  to  receive ! 

For  our  sincere,  tho’  haply  weak  endeavors, 

With  grateful  pride  we  own  your  many  favors : 

And  howsoe’er  our  tongues  may  ill  reveal  it, 

Believe  our  glowing  bosoms  tro’v  fpp1  ;t 


BURNS  S POEMS. 


371 


PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN  BY  MR.  WOODS,  ON  IIIS  BENEFIT  NIGHT,  MON 

DAY,  APRIL  1G,  1787. 

When,  by  a gen’rous  public’s  kind  acclaim, 

That  dearest  meed  is  granted  — honest  fame ; 
When  here  your  favor  is  the  actor’s  lot, 

Nor  ev’n  the  man  in  private  life  forgot; 

What  breast  so  dead  to  heav’nly  virtue’s  glow, 

But  heaves  impassion’d  with  the  grateful  throe? 

Poor  is  the  task  to  please  a barb’rous  throng, 

It  needs  no  Siddon’s  powers  in  Southron’s  song ; 
For  here  an  ancient  nation,  fam’d  afar 
For  genius,  learning  high,  as  great  in  war! 

Hail,  Caledonia ! name  for  ever  dear ! 

Before  whose  sons  Pm  honor’d  to  appear! 

Where  ev’ry  science,  ev’ry  nobler  art, 

That  can  inform  the  mind,  or  mend  the  heart, 

Is  known ; as  grateful  nations  oft  have  found, 

Far  as  the  rude  barbarian  marks  the  bound. 
Philosophy,  no  idle  pendant  dream, 

Here  holds  her  search  by  heav’n-taught  reason’s  beam 
Here  History  paints,  with  elegance  and  force, 

The  tide  of  Empire’s  fluctuating  course ; 

Here  Douglas  forms  wild  Shakspeare  into  plan, 

And  Harley*  rouses  all  the  god  in  man. 


The  Man  of  Feeling,  written  by  Mr.  M’Kenzie. 


372  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

When  well-form’d  taste  and  sparkling  wit  unite, 
With  manly  lore,  or  female  beauty  bright, 

(Beauty,  where  faultless  symmetry  and  grace 
Can  only  charm  us  in  the  second  place,) 

Witness,  my  heart,  how  oft  with  panting  fear, 

As  on  this  night,  I’ve  met  these  judges  here! 

But  still  the  hope  Experience  taught  to  live, 

Equal  to  judge  — you’re  candid  to  forgive. 

No  hundred-headed  Riot  here  we  meet, 

With  decency  and  law  beneath  his  feet; 

Nor  Insolence  assumes  fair  Freedom’s  name ; 

Like  Caledonians,  you  applaud  or  blame. 

O Thou,  dread  Power ! whose  empire-giving  hand 
Has  oft  been  stretch’d  to  shield  the  honor’d  land! 
Strong  may  she  glow  with  all  her  ancient  fire ; 
May  ev’ry  son  be  worthy  of  his  sire ; 

Firm  may  she  rise,  with  generous  disdain, 

At  Tyranny’s  or  direr  Pleasure’s  chain; 

Still  self-dependent  in  her  native  shore, 

Bold  may  she  brave  grim  Danger’s  loudest  roar, 
Till  Fate  the  curtain  drop  on  worlds  to  be  no  mora 


BURNS’S  TOEMS. 


373 


THE  RIGHTS  OF  WOMAN, 

AN  OCCASIONAL  ADDRESS,  SPOKEN  BY  MISS  FONTENELLE, 
ON  HER  BENEFIT  NIGHT. 

While  Europe’s  eye  is  fix’d  on  mighty  things, 

The  fate  of  empires,  and  the  fall  of  kings ; 

While  quacks  of  state  must  each  produce  his  plan, 
And  even  children  lisp  the  Rights  of  Man ; 

Amid  this  mighty  fuss,  just  let  me  mention, 

The  Rights  of  Woman  merit  some  attention. 

First,  in  the  sexes’  intermix’d  connection, 

One  sacred  right  of  Woman  is  protection . 

The  tender  flower  that  lifts  its  head,  elate, 

Helpless  must  fall  before  the  blast  of  fate, 

Sunk  on  the  earth,  defac’d,  its  lovely  form, 

Unless  your  shelter  ward  th’  impending  storm. 

Our  second  Right  — but  needless  here  is  caution. 
To  keep  that  right  inviolate’s  the  fashion; 

Each  man  of  sense  has  it  so  full  before  him, 

He’d  die  before  he’d  wrong  it  — ’tis  decorum. 

There  was,  indeed,  in  far  less  polish’d  days, 

A time  when  rough,  rude  man  had  naughty  ways ; 
Would  swagger,  swear,  get  drunk,  kick  up  a riot, 
Nay,  even  thus  invade  a lady’s  quiet ! 

Now,  thank  our  stars ! those  Gothic  times  are  fled; 
Now,  well-bred  men  — and  you  are  all  well-bred—* 
Most  justly  think  (and  we  are  much  the  gainers' 
Such  conduct  neither  spirit,  wit,  nor  manners. 

32 


374  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

For  Right  the  third,  our  last,  our  best,  our  dearest, 
That  right  to  flutt’ring  female  hearts  the  nearest, 
Which  ev’n  the  Rights  of  Kings,  in  low  prostration, 
Most  humbly  own  — ’tis  dear,  dear  admiration! 

In  that  blest  sphere  alone  we  live  and  move, 

There  taste  that  life  of  life,  — immortal  love ! 
Smiles,  glances,  sighs,  tears,  fits,  flirtations,  airs, 
’Gainst  such  a host  what  flinty  savage  dares  ? 
When  awful  beauty  joins  with  all  her  charms, 

Who  is  so  rash  as  rise  in  rebel  arms? 

But  truce  with  kings,  and  truce  with  constitutions, 
With  bloody  armaments  and  revolutions ; 

Let  majesty  your  first  attention  summon, 

Ah  ca  Ira ! the  Majesty  of  Woman! 


ADDRESS. 

SPOKEN  BY  MISS  FONTENELLE,  ON  HER  BENEFIT  NIGHT 
DECEMBER  4,  1795,  AT  THE  THEATRE,  DUMFRIES. 

Still  anxious  to  secure  your  partial  favor, 

And  not  less  anxious  sure  this  night  than  ever, 

A Prologue,  Epilogue,  or  some  such  matter, 
’Twould  vamp  my  bill,  said  I,  if  nothing  better; 
So,  sought  a Poet,  roosted  near  the  skies, 

Told  him  I came  to  feast  my  curious  eyes  ; 

Said,  nothing  like  his  works  was  ever  printed ; 

And  last  my  Prologue  business  slily  hinted. 

“ Ma’am,  let  me  tell  you,”  quoth  my  man  of  rhymes, 
“I  know  your  bent  — these  are  no  laughing  times 


.BURNSES  POEMS.  375 

Can  you  — but,  Miss,  I own  I have  my  fears, 
Dissolve  in  pause  — and  sentimental  tears  — 

With  laden  sighs,  and  solemn-rounded  sentence, 
Rouse  from  his  sluggish  slumbers,  fell  Repentance  ? 
Paint  Vengeance  as  he  takes  his  horrid  stand, 
Waving  on  high  the  desolating  brand, 

Calling  the  storms  to  bear  him  o’er  a guilty  land?* 

I could  no  more  - askance  the  creature  eyeing, 

“ D’ye  think,”  said  I,  “ this  face  was  made  for  crying  ? 
I’ll  laugh,  that’s  poz ; nay  more,  the  world  shall  know  it, 
And  so,  your  servant ! gloomy  master  Poet ! ” 

Firm  as  my  creed,  sir,  ’tis  my  fix’d  belief, 

That  Misery’s  another  word  for  Grief; 

I also  think  — so  may  I be  a bride! 

That  so  much  laughter’s  so  much  life  enjoy’d. 

Thou  man  of  crazy  care,  and  ceaseless  sigh, 

Still  under  bleak  Misfortune’s  blasting  eye ; 

Doom’d  to  that  sorest  task  of  man  alive  — 

To  make  three  guineas  do  the  work  of  five ; 

Laugh  in  Misfortune’s  face  — the  beldam  witch : 
Say,  you’ll  be  merry,  tho’  you  can’t  be  rich. 

Thou  other  man  of  care,  the  wretch  in  love, 
Who  long  with  jiltish  arts  and  airs  hast  strove: 
Who,  as  the  boughs  all  temptingly  project, 
Measur’st,  in  desp’rate  thought,  a rope — thy  neck; 
Or,  where  the  beetling  cliff  o’erhangs  the  deep, 
Peerest  to  meditate  the  healing  leap ; 

Would’st  thou  be  cur’d,  thou  silly,  moping  elf? 
Laugh  at  her  follies  — laugh  e’en  at  thyself : 


376  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Learn  to  despise  those  frowns,  now  so  terrific, 
And  love  a kinder  — that’s  your  grand  specific. 

To  sum  up  all,  be  merry,  I advise ; 

And  as  we’re  merry,  may  we  still  be  wise. 


FRAGMENT, 

INSCRIBED  TO  THE  RIGHT  HON.  C.  J.  FOX. 

Plow  wisdom  and  folly  meet,  mix,  and  unite, 

How  virtue  and  vice  blend  their  black  and  their  white, 
How  Genius,  th’  illustrious  father  of  fiction, 

Confounds  rule  and  law,  reconciles  contradiction  — 

I sing  : If  these  mortals,  the  critics,  should  bustle, 

I care  not,  not  I ! let  the  critics  go  whistle. 

But  now  for  a patron,  whose  name  and  whose  glory 
At  once  may  illustrate  and  honor  my  story. 

Thou,  first  of  our  orators,  first  of  our  wits ; 

Yet  whose  parts  and  acquirements  seem  mere  lucky 
hits ; 

With  knowledge  so  vast,  and  with  judgment  so  strong, 
No  man  with  the  half  of  ’em  e’er  went  far  wrong ; 
With  passions  so  potent,  and  fancies  so  bright, 

No  man  with  the  half  of  ’em  e’er  went  quite  right ; 

A sorry,  poor,  misbegot  son  of  the  Muses, 

For  using  thy  name  offers  fifty  excuses 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  37 7 

Good  L — d,  what  is  man  ? for  simple  as  he  looks, 
Do  but  try  to  develop  his  hooks  and  his  crooks, 

With  his  depths  and  his  shallows,  his  good  and  his 
evil, 

All  in  all,  he’s  a problem  must  puzzle  the  devil. 

On  his  one  ruling  passion  Sir  Pope  hugely  labors, 
That,  like  th’  old  Hebrew  walking-stick,  eats  up  its 
neighbors  ; 

Mankind  are  his  show-box  — a friend,  would  you  know 
him  ? 

Pull  the  string  — ruling  passion  the  picture  will  show 
him. 

What  pity,  in  rearing  so  beauteous  a system, 

One  trifling  particular,  truth,  should  have  miss’d  him1 
For,  spite  of  his  fine  theoretic  positions, 

Mankind  is  a science  defies  definitions  ! 

Some  sort  all  our  qualities,  each  to  its  tribe, 

And  think  human  nature  they  truly  describe: 

Have  you  found  this  or  t’other?  there’s  more  in  the 
wind, 

As  by  one  drunken  fellow  his  comrades  you’ll  find. 
But  such  is  the  flaw,  or  the  depth  of  the  plan, 

In  the  make  of  that  wonderful  creature,  call’d  Man, 
No  two  virtues,  whatever  relation  they  claim, 

Nor  even  two  different  shades  of  the  same, 

Though  like  as  was  ever  twin  brother  to  brother, 
Possessing  the  one  shall  imply  you’ve  the  other 
32* 


378  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


INSCRIPTION 

FOR  AN  ALTAR  TO  INDEPENDENCE,  AT  KERROUGIITRY, 
THE  SEAT  OF  MR.  HERON,  WRITTEN  IN  SUMMER,  1795. 

Thou  of  an  independent  mind, 

With  soul  resolv’d,  with  soul  resign’d  ; 

Prepar’d  Pow’r’s  proudest  frown  to  brave, 

Who  wilt  not  be,  nor  have  a slave ; 

Virtue  alone  who  dost  revere, 

Thy  own  reproach  alone  dost  fear, — 

Approach  this  shrine,  and  worship  here. 


ADDRESS  TO  EDINBURGH. 


Edina!  Scotia’s  darling  seat! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  tow’rs, 
Where  once,  beneath  a monarch’s  feet, 
Sat  legislation’s  sov’reign  pow’rs ! 
From  marking  wildly-scatter’d  flow’rs, 
As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I stray’d, 
And  singing,  lone,  the  ling’ring  hours, 
I shelter  in  thy  honor’d  shade. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  379 

ii. 

Here,  Wealth  still  swells  the  golden  tide, 

As  busy  Trade  his  labors  plies ; 

There,  Architecture’s  noble  pride 
Bids  elegance  and  splendor  rise; 

Here,  Justice,  from  her  native  skies, 

High  wields  her  balance  and  her  rod 

There,  Learning,  with  his  eagle  eyes, 

Seeks  Science  in  her  coy  abode. 

in. 

Thy  sons,  Edina,  social,  kind, 

With  open  arms  the  stranger  hail ! 

Their  views  enlarg’d,  their  lib’ral  mind 
Above  the  narrow  rural  vale; 

Attentive  still  to  Sorrow’s  wail, 

Or  modest  Merit’s  silent  claim ; 

And  never  may  their  sources  fail ! 

And  never  Envy  blot  their  name. 

iv. 

Thy  daughters  bright  thy  walks  adorn 
Gay  as  the  gilded  summer  sky, 

Sweet  as  the  dewy,  milk-white  thorn, 

Dear  as  the  raptur’d  thrill  of  joy ! 

Fair  B strikes  the  adoring  eye! 

Heav’n’s  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine, 

I see  the  Sire  of  love  on  high, 

And  own  his  work  indeed  divine ! 

v. 

There,  watching  high  the  least  alarms, 

Thy  rough,  rude  fortress  gleams  afar ; 


380  BURNS  S POEMS. 

Like  some  bold  vet’ran,  gray  in  arms, 

And  mark’d  with  many  a seamy  scar; 
The  pond’rous  wall  and  massy  bar, 
Grim-rising  o’er  the  rugged  rock, 

Have  ofl  withstood  assailing  war, 

And  ofl  repell’d  the  invader’s  shock. 

VI. 

With  awe-struck  thought,  and  pitying  tears, 
I view  that  noble,  stately  dome, 

Where  Scotia’s  kings,  of  other  years, 

Fam’d  heroes  ! had  their  royal  home : 

Alas ! how  chang’d  the  times  to  come  ; 

Their  royal  name  low  in  the  dust! 

Their  hapless  race  wild-wand’ring  roam ! 
Tho’  rigid  law  cries  out,  ’Twas  just. 

VII. 

Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps, 
Whose  ancestors,  in  days  of  yore, 

Thro’  hostile  ranks,  and  ruin’d  gaps, 

Old  Scotia’s  bloody  lion  bore : 

Ev’n  I,  who  sing  in  rustic  lore, 

Haply  my  sires  have  left  their  shed, 

And  fac’d  grim  Danger’s  loudest  roar, 

Bold  following  where  your  fathers  led! 

VIII. 

Edina ! Scotia’s  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  tow’rs, 

Where,  once  beneath  a monarch’s  feet, 

Sat  legislation’s  sov’reign  pow’rs! 


burns’s  poems.  381 

From  marking*  wildly-scatter’d  flow’rs, 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I stray’d, 

And  singing*,  lone,  the  ling’ring  hours, 

I shelter  in  thy  honor’d  shade. 


BOOK  V. 

SONGS  AND  BALLADS, 


A VISION. 

As  I stood  on  yon  roofless  tower, 

Where  the  wa’-flower  scents  the  dewy  air, 

Where  the  howlet  mourns  in  her  ivy  bower, 
And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her  care : 

The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still, 

The  stars  they  shot  along  the  sky; 

The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill, 

And  the  distant-echoing  glens  reply. 

The  stream,  adown  its  hazelly  path, 

Was  rushing  by  the  ruin’d  wa’s, 

Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nith, 

Whase  distant  roaring  swells  and  fa’s. 

The  cauld  blue  north  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi’  hissing,  eerie  din ; 

Athart  the  lift  they  start  and  shift, 

Like  Fortune’s  favors,  tint  as  win. 

By  heedless  chance  I turn’d  my  eyes, 

And  by  the  moonbeam,  shook,  to  see 


burns’s  poems.  383 

A stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise, 

Attir’d  as  minstrels  wont  to  be. 

Had  I statue  been  o’  stane, 

His  darin’  look  had  daunted  me : 

And  on  his  bonnet  grav’d  was  plain, 

The  sacred  posy  — Libertie! 

And  frae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flow, 

Might  rous’d  the  slumbering  dead  to  hear; 

But,  oh ! it  was  a tale  of  wo, 

As  ever  met  a Briton’s  ear. 

He  sang  wri’  joy  his  former  day, 

He,  weeping,  wail’d  his  latter  times; 

But  what  he  said  it  was  nae  play, 

I winna  ventur’t  in  my  rhymes.* 


* The  scenery,  so  finely  described  in  this  poem,  is  taken  from  nature. 
The  poet  is  supposed  to  be  musing,  by  night,  on  the  banks  of  the  Clu- 
den,  near  the  ruins  of  Lincluden  Abbey,  of  which  some  account  is  given 
in  Pennant’s  Tour  and  Grose’s  Antiquities.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  he 
suppressed  the  song  of  Libertie.  From  the  resources  of  his  genius,  and 
the  grandeur  and  solemnity  of  the  preparation,  something  might  have 
been  anticipated,  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  tn©  Address  of  Bruce  to  his 
Army,  to  the  Song  of  Death,  or  to  the  fervid  and  noble  description  of 
the  Dying  Soldier  in  the  Field  of  Battle. 


384  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


BANNOCK  BURN. 

ROBERT  BRUCE’S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled, 

Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aftcn  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  glorious  victorie. 

Now’s  the  day,  and  now’s  the  hour; 

See  the  front  of  battle  lower ; 

See  approach  proud  Edward’s  power  — 
Edward ! chains ! and  slaverie  ! 

Wha  will  be  a traitor  knave? 

Wha  can  till  a coward’s  grave? 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a slave  ? 

Traitor ! coward  ! turn  and  flee  ! 

Wha  for  Scotland’s  king  and  law 
Freedom’s  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa’? 
Caledonian  ! on  wi’  me ! 

By  oppression’s  woes  and  pains ! 

By  your  sons  in  servile  chains! 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  — shall  be  free! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low! 

Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 

Liberty’s  in  every  blow! 

Forward ! let  us  do,  or  die ! 


\ eurxs’s  poems.  385 


SONG  OF  DEATH. 

S„ene  — A Field  of  Battle . Time  of  the  day  — Even- 
ing. The  wounded  and  dying  of  the  victorious  army 
are  supposed  to  join  in  the  following  Song. 

Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth,  and  ye 
skies, 

Now  gay  with  the  bright  setting  sun ; 

Farewell,  loves  and  friendships,  ye  dear  tender  ties, 
Our  race  of  existence  is  run! 

Thou  grim  king  of  terrors,  thou  life’s  gloomy  foe, 

Go,  frighten  the  coward  and  slave ; 

Go,  teach  them  to  tremble,  fell  tyrant!  but  know, 

No  terrors  hast  thou  to  the  brave ! 

Thou  strik’st  the  dull  peasant  — he  sinks  in  the  dark, 
Nor  saves  e’en  the  wreck  of  a name; 

Thou  strik’st  the  young  hero  — a glorious  mark! 

He  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame ! 

In  the  proud  field  of  honor — our  swords  in  our  hands, 
Our  king  and  our  country  to  save — 

While  Victory  shines  on  life’s  last  ebbing  sands, 

O ! who  would  not  rest  with  the  brave ! 

33 


386  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


IMITATION 

OF  AN  OLD  JACOBITE  SONG. 

By  yon  castle  wa’,  at  the  close  of  the  day, 

I heard  a man  sing,  though  his  head  it  was  gray; 
And  as  he  was  singing,  the  tears  fast  down  came  — 
There’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

The  church  is  in  ruins,  the  state  is  in  jars ; 
Delusions,  oppressions,  and  murderous  wars; 

We  dare  na  weel  say’t,  but  we  ken  wha’s  to  blame— 
There’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

My  seven  braw  sons  for  Jamie  drew  sword, 

And  now  I greet  round  their  green  beds  in  the  yerd ; 
It  brak  the  sweet  heart  o’  my  faithfu’  auld  dame  — 
There’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

Now  life  is  a burden  that  bows  me  down, 

Sin’  I tint  my  bairns,  and  he  tint  his  crown ; 

But  till  my  last  moment  my  words  are  the  same  — 
There’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 


THE  LASS  OF  INVERNESS. 

Tiie  lovely  lass  o’  Inverness, 

Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see ; 
For  e’en  and  morn  she  cries,  Alas ! 
And  ay  the  saut  tear  blin’s  her  e’e. 


BURNS  S POEMS.  387 

Drumossie  moor,  Drumossie  day, 

A waefu’  day  it  was  to  me; 

For  there  I lost  my  father  dear, 

My  father  dear,  and  brethren  three. 

Their  winding  sheet  the  bluidy  clay, 

Their  graves  are  growing  green  to  see ; 

And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 
That  ever  blest  a woman’s  e’e ! 

Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 

A bluidy  man  I trow  thou  be ; 

For  monie  a heart  thou  hast  made  sair, 

That  ne’er  did  wrong  to  thine  or  thee. 


■o 


THE  ABSENT  WARRIOR. 

Tune  — “ Logan  Water?  * 

O Logan  ! sweetly  didst  thou  glide, 

That  day  I was  my  Willie’s  bride  ; 

And  years  sinsyne  have  o’er  us  run, 

Like  Logan  to  the  simmer  sun. 

But  now  thy  flow’ry  banks  appear, 

Like  drumlie  winter,  dark  and  drear ; 

While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 

Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. 

Again  the  merry  month  o’  May 
Has  made  our  hills  and  valleys  gay ; 


388  burns’s  TOEMS. 

The  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bow’rs, 

The  bees  hum  round  the  breathing  flow’rs; 
Blithe  Morning  lifts  his  rosy  eye, 

And  Evening’s  tears  are  tears  of  joy; 

My  soul,  delightless,  a’  surveys, 

While  Willie’s  far  frae  Logan  braes. 

Within  yon  milk-white  hawthorn  bush, 
Amang  her  nestlings  sits  the  thrush ; 

Her  faithfu’  mate  will  share  her  toil, 

Or  wi’  his  song  her  cares  beguile ; 

But  I,  wi’  my  sweet  nurslings  here, 

Nae  mate  to  help,  nae  mate  to  cheer, 

Pass  widow’d  nights  and  joyless  days, 
While  Willie’s  far  frae  Logan  braes. 

O,  wae  upon  you,  men  o’  state, 

That  brethren  rouse  to  deadly  hate ! 

As  ye  make  monie  a fond  heart  mourn, 

Sae  may  it  on  yoyr  heads  return! 

How  can  your  flinty  hearts  enjoy 
The  widow’s  tears,  the  orphan’s  cry? 

* But  soon  may  peace  bring  happier  days, 
And  Willie,  hame  to  Logan  braes1 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  389 


THE  WARRIOR’S  RETURN. 

Air  — “ The  Mill , Mill,  0.” 

When  wild  war’s  deadly  blast  was  blawn. 
And  gentle  peace  returning, 

Wi’  monie  a sweet  babe  fatherless, 

And  monie  a widow  mourning: 

I left  the  lines  and  tented  field, 

Where  lang  I’d  been  a lodger, 

My  humble  knapsack  a’  my  wealth, 

A poor  and  honest  sodger. 

A leal,  light  heart  was  in  my  breast, 

My  hand  unstain’d  wi’  plunder ; 

And  for  fair  Scotia’s  hame  again, 

I cheery  on  did  wander. 

I thought  upon  the  banks  o’  Coil, 

I thought  upon  my  Nancy, 

I thought  upon  the  witching  smile 
That  caught  my  youthful  fancy. 

At  length  I reach’d  the  bonie  glen, 

Where  early  life  I sported  ; 

I pass’d  the  mill  and  trystin’  thorn, 

Where  Nancy  aft  I courted. 

Wha  spied  I but  my  ain  dear  maid, 

Down  by  her  mother’s  dwelling! 

And  turn’d  me  round  to  hide  the  flood 
That  in  my  een  was  swelling. 

33* 


390  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Wi’  alter’d  voice,  quoth  I,  sweet  lass. 
Sweet  as  yon  hawthorn’s  blossom, 

O!  happy,  happy  may  he  be, 

That’s  dearest  to  thy  bosom! 

My  purse  is  light,  I’ve  far  to  gang, 
And  fain  would  be  thy  lodger ; 

I’ve  serv’d  my  king  and  country  lang: 
Take  pity  on  a sodger. 

Sae  wistfully  she  gaz’d  on  me, 

And  lovelier  was  than  ever; 

Quo’  she,  a sodger  ance  I lo’ed, 

Forget  him  shall  I never. 

Our  humble  cot,  and  hamely  fare, 

Ye  freely  shall  partake  it, 

That  gallant  badge,  the  dear  cockade, 
Ye’re  welcome  for  the  sake  o’t. 

She  gaz’d — she  redden’d  like  a rose  — 
Syne  pale  like  ony  lily; 

She  sank  within  my  arms,  and  cried, 
Art  thou  my  ain  dear  Willie  ? 

By  him  who  made  yon  sun  and  sky  — 
By  whom  true  love’s  regarded, 

I am  the  man ; and  thus  may  still 
True  lovers  be  rewarded. 

The  wars  are  o’er,  and  I’m  come  hame, 
And  find  thee  still  true-hearted: 

Tho’  poor  in  gear,  we’re  rich  in  love, 
And  mair  we’se  ne’er  be  parted. 




BURNS’S  POEMS.  391 

Quo’  she,  my  grandsire  left  me  gowd, 

A mailen  plenish’d  fairly ; 

And  come,  my  faithful  sodger  lad, 

Thou’rt  welcome  to  it  dearly! 

For  gold  the  merchant  ploughs  the  main, 

The  farmer  ploughs  the  manor; 

But  glory  is  the  sodger’s  prize, 

The  sodger’s  wealth  is  honor. 

The  brave  poor  sodger  ne’er  despise, 

Nor  count  him  as  a stranger; 

Remember,  he’s  his  country’s  stay 
In  day  and  hour  of  danger. 


LORD  GREGORY. 

O mirk,  mirk  is  this  midnight  hour, 

And  loud  the  tempest’s  roar; 

A waefu’  wanderer  seeks  thy  tow’r  — 
Lord  Gregory,  ope  thy  door. 

An  exile  frae  her  father’s  ha’, 

And  a’  for  loving  thee ; 

At  least  some  pity  on  me  show, 

If  love  it  may  na  be. 

Lord  Gregory,  mind’st  thou  not  the  grove, 
By  bonie  Irwine  side, 

Where  first  I own’d  that  virgin-love 
I lang,  lang  had  denied. 


392  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

How  aften  didst  thou  pledge  and  vow, 
Thou  wad  for  ay  be  mine! 

And  my  fond  heart,  itsel’  sae  true, 

It  ne’er  mistrusted  thine. 

Hard  is  thy  heart,  Lord  Gregory, 

And  flinty  is  thy  breast: 

Thou  dart  of  Heaven,  that  flashest  by 
O wilt  thou  give  me  rest  ? 

Ye  mustering  thunders  from  above, 
Your  willing  victim  see ! 

But  spare,  and  pardon  my  fause  love, 
His  wrangs  to  Heaven  and  me ! 


-#■ 


OPEN  THE  DOOR  TO  ME,  OH! 

WITH  ALTERATIONS. 

On,  open  the  door,  some  pity  show, 

Oh,  open  the  door  to  me,  oh  ! 

Tho’  thou  hast  been  false,  I’ll  ever  prove  true ; 
Oh,  open  the  door  to  me,  oh ! 

Cauld  is  the  blast  upon  my  pale  cheek, 

But  caulder  thy  love  for  me,  oh! 

The  frost  that  freezes  the  life  at  my  heart, 

Is  nought  to  my  pains  frae  thee,  oh ! 

The  wan  moon  is  setting  behind  the  white  waves, 
And  time  is  setting  with  me,  oh! 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  393 

False  friends,  false  love,  farewell!  for  mair 
I’ll  ne’er  trouble  them  nor  thee,  oh! 

She  has  open’d  the  door,  she  has  open’d  it  wide ; 

She  sees  his  pale  corse  on  the  plain,  oh ! 

My  true  love!  she  cried,  and  sank  down  by  his  side 
Never  to  rise  again,  oh ! 


THE  ENTREATY. 

Tune  — “ Let  me  in  this  ae  nighty 

O lassie,  art  thou  sleeping  yet? 

Or  art  thou  wakin,  I would  wit? 

For  Love  has  bound  me  hand  and  foot, 
And  I would  fain  be  in,  jo. 

CHORUS. 

O let  me  in  this  ae  night, 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night; 

For  pity’s  sake,  this  ae  night, 

O rise  and  let  me  in,  jo. 

Thou  hear’st  the  winter  wind  and  weet, 
Nae  star  blinks  thro’  the  driving  sleet; 
Tak  pity  on  my  weary  feet, 

And  shield  me  frae  the  rain,  jo. 

O let,  &c. 


394  BURNs’s  POEMS. 

The  bitter  blast  that  round  me  blaws, 
Unheeded  howls,  unheeded  fa’s ; 

The  cauldness  o’  thy  heart’s  the  cause 
Of  a’  my  grief  and  pain,  jo. 

. O let,  &c. 


THE  ANSWER. 

O teld  na  me  o’  wind  and  rain, 

Upbraid  na  me  wi’  cauld  disdain! 

Gae  back  the  gate  ye  cam  again, 

I winna  let  you  in,  jo. 

CHORUS. 

I tell  you  now  this  ae  night, 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night; 

And  ance  for  a’,  this  ae  night, 

I winna  let  you  in,  jo. 

The  snelliest  blast,  at  mirkest  hours, 

That  round  the  pathless  wand’rer  pours, 

Is  nocht  to  what  poor  she  endures 
That’s  trusted  faithless  man,  jo. 

I tell,  &c. 

The  sweetest  flower  that  deck’d  the  mead, 
Now  trodden  like  the  vilest  weed ; 

Let  simple  maid  the  lesson  read, 

The  weird  may  be  her  ain,  io. 

I tell,  &c 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 

395 

The  bird  that  cham’d  his  summer-day, 
Is  now  the  cruel  fowler’s  prey ; 

Let  witless,  trusting  woman  say 

How  aft  her  fate’s  the  same,  jo. 

I tell,  &c. 

^ 

THE  FORLORN  LOVER. 

Tune  — u Let  me  in  this  ae  nisrld” 

Forlorn,  my  love,  no  comfort  near, 
Far,  far  from  thee,  I wander  here, 
Far,  far  from  thee,  the  fate  severe, 

At  which  I most  repine,  love. 

CHORUS. 

0 wert  thou,  love,  but  near  me, 

But  near,  near,  near  me ; 

How  kindly  thou  wouldst  cheer  me, 
And  mingle  sighs  with  mine,  love. 

Around  me  scowls  a wint’ry  sky, 

That  blasts  each  bud  of  hope  and  joy, 
And  shelter,  shade,  nor  home  have  I, 
Save  in  those  arms  of  thine,  love. 

0 wert,  &c. 

Cold,  alter’d  Friendship’s  cruel  part, 
To  poison  Fortune’s  ruthless  dart  — 
Let  me  not  break  thy  faithful  heart, 
And  say  that  fate  is  mine,  love. 

O wert,  &c. 

39G  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

But  dreary  tho’  the  moments  fleet 
O let  me  think  we  yet  shall  meet 
That  only  ray  of  solace  sweet 

Can  on  thy  Chloris  shine,  love. 

O wert,  &c. 


— — — 

THE  DREARY  NIGHT. 
Tune  — “ Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen.” 

How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night, 
When  I am  frae  my  dearie! 

I restless  lie  frae  e’en  to  morn, 
Though  I were  ne’er  sae  weary. 

CHORUS. 

For  oh,  her  lanely  nights  are  lang ; 

And  oh,  her  dreams  are  eerie ; 
And  oh,  her  widow’d  heart  is  sair, 
That’s  absent  frae  her  dearie. 

When  I think  ®n  the  lightsome  days 
I spent  wi’  thee,  my  dearie ; 

And  now  what  seas  between  us  roar, 
How  can  I but  be  eerie? 

For  oh,  &c. 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours ; 

The  joyless  day,  how  dreary ! 

It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by, 

When  I was  wi’  my  dearie. 

For  oh,  &c. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  397 


POORTITH  CAULD. 

Tune  — “I  had  a Horse” 

O poortith  cauld,  and  restless  love, 
To  wreck  my  peace  between  ye ; 

Yet  poortith  a’  I could  forgive, 

An’  twere  na  for  my  Jeany. 

CHORUS. 

O why  should  Fate  sic  pleasure  have 
Life’s  dearest  bands  untwining? 

Or  why  sae  sweet  a flower  as  Love, 
Depend  on  Fortune’s  shining? 

This  warld’s  wealth,  when  I think  on 
It’s  pride  and  a’  the  lave  o’t ; 

Fie,  fie  on  silly  coward  man, 

That  he  should  be  the  slave  o’t. 

O why,  &c. 

Her  een  sae  bonie  blue  betray 
How  she  repays  my  passion; 

But  prudence  is  her  o’erword  ay, 

She  talks  of  rank  and  fashion. 

O why,  &c. 

O wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 

And  sic  a lassie  by  him? 

O wha  can  prudence  think  upon. 

And  sae  in  love  as  I am  ? 

O why,  &c, 

34 


398 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


How  b.est  the  humble  cotter’s  fate ! 

He  woos  his  simple  dearie ; 

The  sillie  bogles,  wealth  and  state, 
Can  never  make  them  eerie. 

O why,  &c. 


CLARINDA. 

Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul, 

The  measur’d  time  is  run! 

The  wretch  beneath  the  dreary  pole, 

So  marks  his  latest  sun. 

To  what  dark  cave  of  frozen  night 
Shall  poor  Sylvander  hie  ? 

Depriv’d  of  thee,  his  life  and  light, 

The  sun  of  all  his  joy. 

We  part  — but  by  these  precious  drops 
That  fill  thy  lovely  eyes ! 

No  other  light  shall  guide  my  steps 
Till  thy  bright  beams  arise. 

She,  the  fair  sun  of  all  her  sex, 

Has  blest  my  glorious  day; 

And  shall  a glimm’ring  planet  fix 
My  worship  to  its  ray? 


V 

BURNS’S  POEMS.  399 


ISABELLA. 

Tune  — “ jWGngor  of  Revo's  Lament 

Raving  winds  around  her  blowing, 
Yellow  leaves  the  woodlands  strowing — 
By  a river  hoarsely  roaring, 

Isabella  stray’d,  deploring  — 

“Farewell,  hours  that  late  did  measure 
Sunshine  days  of  joy  and  pleasure ; 

Hail,  thou  gloomy  night  of  sorrow, 
Cheerless  night,  that  knows  no  morrow! 

“ O’er  the  past  too  fondly  wand’ring, 

On  the  hopeless  future  pond’ring ; 

Chilly  grief  my  life-blood  freezes, 

Fell  despair  my  fancy  seizes. 

Life,  thou  soul  of  ev’ry  blessing, 

Load  to  mis’ry  most  distressing, 

O,  how  gladly  I’d  resign  thee, 

And  to  dark  oblivion  join  thee!” 


WANDERING  WILLIE. 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  haud  away  hame  ; 

Come  to  my  bosom,  my  ain  only  dearie, 

Tell  me  thou  bring’st  me  my  Willie  the  same. 


400  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Winter  winds  blew  loud  and  cauld  at  our  parting, 
Fears  for  my  Willie  brought  tears  in  my  e’e; 

Welcome  now  simmer,  and  welcome  my  Willie, 
The  simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me! 

Rest,  ye  wild  storms,  in  the  cave  of  your  slumbers, 
How  your  dread  howling  a lover  alarms  ! 

Wauken,  ye  breezes  ; row  gently,  ye  billows, 

And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my  arms 

But  oh ! if  he’s  faithless,  and  minds  na  his  Nanie, 
Flow  still  between  us,  thou  wide-roaring  main! 

May  I never  see  it,  may  I never  trow  it, 

But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie’s  my  ain ! 


THE  PARTING  KISS. 

Jockey’s  taen  the  parting  kiss, 

O’er  the  mountains  he  has  gane ; 

And  with  him  is  a’  my  bliss : 

Nought  but  griefs  with  me  remain. 

Spare  my  luve,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 
Plashy  sleets  and  beating  rain! 

Spare  my  luve,  thou  feath’ry  snaw, 
Drifting  o’er  the  frozen  plain ! 

When  the  shades  of  evening  creep 
O’er  the  day’s  fair,  gladsome  e’e, 

Sound  and  safely  may  he  sleep, 
Sweetly  blithe  his  wauk’ning  bo ' 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 

401 

He  will  think  on  her  he  loves, 
Fondly  he’ll  repeat  her  name; 
For  where’er  he  distant  roves, 
Jockey’s  heart  is  still  at  hame. 

THE  ROARING  OCEAN. 

Tune  — u Druimion  dubh .” 

Musing  on  the  roaring  ocean, 

Which  divides  my  love  and  me ; 
Wearying  Heav’n,  in  warm  devotion. 
For  his  weal,  where’er  he  be. 

Hope  and  fear’s  alternate  billow 
Yielding  late  to  Nature’s  law ; 
Whisp’ring  spirits,  round  my  pillow, 
Talk  of  him  that’s  far  awa. 

Ye  whom  sorrow  never  wounded, 
Ye  who  never  shed  a tear, 
Care-untroubled,  joy-surrounded, 
Gaudy  day  t$  you  is  dear. 

Gentle  night!  do  thou  befriend  me 
Downy  sleep,  the  curtain  draw ; 
Spirits  kind,  again  attend  me, 

Talk  of  him  that’s  far  awa ! 

34* 

402  BURNS’S  POEM9. 


FAIR  ELIZA. 

A GAELIC  AIR. 

Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza, 

Ae  kind  blink,  before  we  part, 

Rew  on  thy  despairing  lover; 

Canst  thou  break  his  faithful  heart? 
Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza ; 

If  to  love  thy  heart  denies, 

For  pity  hide  the  cruel  sentence 
Under  friendship’s  kind  disguise. 

Thee,  dear  maid,  hae  I offended  ? 

The  offence  is  loving  thee! 

Canst  thou  wreck  his  peace  for  ever, 
Wha  for  thine  would  gladly  die  ? 
While  the  life  beats  in  my  bosom, 
Thou  shall  mix  in  ilka  throe  ; 

Turn  again,  thou  lovely  maiden, 

Ae  sweet  smile  on  me  bestow. 

Not  the  bee  upon  the  blossom, 

In  the  pride  o’  sinny  noon ; 

Not  the  little  sporting  fairy, 

All  beneath  the  simmer  moon ; 

Not  the  poet,  in  the  moment 
Fancy  lightens  on  his  e’e, 

Kens  the  pleasure,  feels  the  rapture, 
That  thy  presence  gies  to  me. 


burns’s  poems.  403 


ELIZA. 

Tune  — “ JYancy’s  to  the  Greenwood ,”  fyc. 

Farewell,  thou  stream  that  winding  flows 
Around  Eliza’s  dwelling ! 

0 mem’ry,  spare  the  cruel  throes 
Within  my  bosom  swelling. 

Condemn’d  to  drag  a hopeless  chain, 

And  yet  in  secret  languish, 

To  feel  a fire  in  ev’ry  vein, 

Nor  dare  disclose  my  anguish. 

Love’s  veriest  wretch,  unseen,  unknown, 

I fain  my  griefs  would  cover ; 

The  bursting  sigh,  th’  unweeting  groan, 
Betray  the  hapless  lover. 

1 know  thou  doom’st  me  to  despair. 

Nor  wilt  nor  canst  relieve  me ; 

But  oh,  Eliza,  hear  one  prayer, 

For  pity’s  sake,  forgive  me. 

The  music  of  thy  voice  I heard, 

Nor  wist,  while  it  enslav’d  me ; 

I saw  thine  eyes,  yet  nothing  fear’d, 

Till  fears  ntf  more  had  sav’d  me : 

Th’  unwary  sailor  thus  aghast, 

The  wheeling  torrent  viewing ; 

’Mid  circling  horrors,  sinks  at  last 
In  overwhelming  ruin. 


404  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


THE  BRAES  O’  BALLOCHMYLE. 

The  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen, 
The  flow’rs  decay’d  on  Catrine  lea ; 

Nae  lav’rock  sang  on  hillock  green, 

But  Nature  sicken’d  on  the  e’e. 

Thro’  faded  groves  Maria  sang, 

Hersel’  in  beauty’s  bloom  the  whyle ; 

And  ay  the  wild-wood  echoes  rang, 
Farewell  the  braes  o’  Ballochmyle. 

Low  in  your  wint’ry  beds,  ye  flow’rs, 
Again  ye’ll  flourish  fresh  and  fair  ; 

Ye  birdies  dumb,  in  with’ring  bow’rs, 
Again  ye’ll  charm  the  vocal  air: 

But  here,  alas  ! for  me,  nae  mair 
Shall  birdie  charm,  or  flow’ret  smile, 

. Farewell  the  bonie  banks  of  Ayr, 

Farewell,  farewell!  sweet  Ballochmyle. 


GLOOMY  DECEMBER. 

Ance  mair  I hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December! 

Ance  mair  I hail  thee,  wi’  sorrow  and  care ; 
Sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me  remember, 
Parting  wi’  Nancy,  oh ! ne’er  to  meet  mair ! 


BURNs’s  POEMS.  405 

Fond  lovers’  parting  is  sweet,  painful  pleasure; 

Hope  beaming  mild  on  the  soft,  parting  hour; 
But  the  dire  feeling,  O farewell  for  ever! 

Is  anguish  unmingled,  and  agony  pure. 

Wild  as  the  Winter  now  tearing  the  forest, 

Till  the  last  leaf  o’  the  Summer  is  flown, 

Such  is  the  tempest  has  shaken  my  bosom, 

Since  my  last  hope  and  last  comfort  is  gone. 

Still  as  I hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  Decembe'r, 

Still  shall  I hail  thee  wi’  sorrow  and  care ; 

For  sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me  remember 
Parting  wi’  Nancy,  oh,  ne’er  to  meet  rnair. 


«$. 

DEPARTURE  OF  NANCY. 

Tune  — “ Oran-gaoil .” 

Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive ; 

Thou  goest,  thou  darling  of  my  heart  I 
Sever’d  from  thee,  can  I survive  ? 

But  fate  has  will’d,  and  we  must  part. 

I’ll  often  greet  this  surging  swell, 

Yon  distant  isle  will  often  hail : 

“ E’en  here  I took  the  last  farewell ; 
There,  latest  mark’d  her  vanish’d  sail.” 

Along  the  solitary  shore, 

While  flitting  sea-fowl  round  me  cry, 


40G  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Across  the  rolling,  dashing  roar, 

I’ll  westward  turn  my  wistful  eye* 

Happy,  thou  Indian  grove,  I’ll  say, 

Where  now  my  Nancy’s  path  may  be! 
While  thro’  thy  sweets  she  loves  to  stray, 
O tell  me,  does  she  muse  on  me? 


MY  NANIE’S  AWA. 

Tune  — - “ There’ll  never  be  peace  ” fyc. 

Now  in  her  green  mantle  blithe  Nature  arrays, 

And  listens  the  lambkins  that  bleat  o’er  the  braes, 
While  birds  warble  welcome  in  ilka  green  shaw; 

But  to  me  it’s  delightless — my  Name’s  awa. 

The  snaw-drap  and  primrose  our  woodlands  adorn, 
And  violets  bathe  in  the  weet  o’  the  morn; 

They  pain  my  sad  bosom  so  sweetly  they  blaw, 

They  mind  me  o’  Nanie  — and  Name’s  awa. 

Thou  lav’rock  that  springs  frae  the  dews  of  the  lawn, 
The  shepherd  to  warn  o’  the  gray-breaking  dawn, 
And  thou  mellow  mavis  that  hails  the  night-fa’. 

Give  over,  for  pity  — my  Nanie’s  awa. 

Come,  Autumn,  sae  pensive,  in  yellow  and  gray, 

And  soothe  me  wi’  tidings  o’  Nature’s  decay: 

The  dark,  dreary  Winter,  and  wild-driving  snaw 
Alane  can  delight  me  — now  Nanie’s  awa. 


B URN  S’ S POExMS. 


407 


BANKS  O’  DOON. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o’  bonie  Doon 
How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair? 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I sae  weary,  fu’  o’  care? 

Thou’lt  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 
That  wantons  thro’  the  flow’ring  thorn: 

Thou  minds  me  o’  departed  joys, 

Departed,  never  to  return. 

Oft  hae  I rov’d  my  bonie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine ; 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o’  its  love, 

And  fondly  sae  did  I o’  mine. 

Wi’  lightsome  heart  I pu’d  a rose, 

Fu’  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree; 

And  my  fause  lover  stole  my  rose, 

But,  ah!  he  left  the  thorn  wi’  me. 


THE  DISCONSOLATE  LOVER. 

Now  Spring  has  clad  the  groves  in  green, 
And  strew’d  the  lea  wi’  flowers ; 

The  furrow’d  waving  corn  is  seen 
Rejoice  in  fostering  showers : 


408 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


While  ilka  thing  in  nature  join 
Their  sorrows  to  forego, 

O why  thus  all  alone  are  mine 
The  weary  steps  of  wo ! 

The  trout  within  yon  wimpling  burn 
Glides  swift,  a silver  dart, 

And  safe  beneath  the  shady  thorn, 
Defies  the  angler’s  art : 

My  life  was  ance  that  careless  stream, 
That  wanton  trout  was  I ; 

But  love,  wi’  unrelenting  beam, 

Has  scorch’d  my  fountains  dry. 

The  little  flowret’s  peaceful  lot, 

In  yonder  cliff  that  grows, 

Which,  save  the  linnet’s  flight,  I wot, 
Nae  ruder  visit  knows, 

Was  mine ; till  love  has  o’er  me  past, 
And  blighted  a’  my  bloom ; 

And  now,  beneath  the  withering  blast, 
My  youth  and  joy  consume. 

The  waken’d  lav’rock  warbling  springs, 
And  climbs  the  early  sky, 
Winnowing  blithe  her  dewy  wings, 

In  morning’s  rosy  eye ; 

As  little  reckt  I sorrow’s  pow’r, 

Until  the  flow’ry  snare 
O’  witching  love,  in  luckless  hour, 
Made  me  the  thrall  o’  care. 

O,  had  my  fate  been  Greenland  snows, 
Or  Afric’s  burning  zone, 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  409 

Wi’  men  and  nature  leagu’d  my  foes, 

So  Peggy  ne’er  I’d  known! 

The  wretch  whase  doom  is,  “ Plope  nae  mair,’* 
What  tongue  his  woes  can  tell  ? 

Within  whase  bosom,  save  despair, 

Nae  kinder  spirits  dwell. 


/ CRAGIE-BURN. 

Tune  — “ Cragie-Burn  Woody 

Sweet  fa’s  the  eve  on  Cragie-Burn, 

And  blithe  awakes  the  morrow ; 

But  a’  the  pride  o’  spring’s  return 
Can  yield  me  nocht  but  sorrow. 

I see  the  flowers  and  spreading  trees, 

I hear  the  wild  birds  singing; 

But  what  a weary  wight  can  please, 

And  care  his  bosom  wringing? 

Fain,  fain  would  I my  griefs  impart, 

Yet  dare  na  for  your  anger ; 

But  secret  love'  will  break  my  heart, 

If  I conceal  it  langer. 

If  thou  refuse  to  pity  me, 

If  thou  shalt  love  anither, 

When  yon  green  leaves  fade  frae  the  tree, 
Around  my  grave  they’ll  wither. 

35 


410  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


THE  CHEERLESS  SOUL. 

Tune  — “Jockey's  Gray  Breclcs” 

Again  rejoicing  Nature  sees 
Her  robe  assume  its  vernal  hues ; 

Her  leafy  locks  wave  in  the  breeze, 

All  freshly  steep’d  in  morning  dews. 

In  vain  to  me  the  cowslips  blaw, 

In  vain  to  me  the  vi’lets  spring ; « 

In  vain  to  me  in  glen  or  shaw, 

The  mavis  and  the  lintwhite  sing. 

The  merry  ploughboy  cheers  his  team, 

Wi’  joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks  ; 

But  life  to  me’s  a weary  dream, 

A dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks. 

The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims,  4 

Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry ; 

The  stately  swan  majestic  swims, 

And  everything  is  blest  but  I. 

The  sheep-herd  steeks  hi§  faulding  slap, 

And  owre  the  moorland  whistles  shrill ; 

Wi’  wild,  unequal,  wand’ring  step 
I meet  him  on  the  dewy  hill. 

And  when  the  lark,  ’tween  light  and  dark, 

Blithe  waukens  by  the  daisy’s  side, 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


411 


And  mounts  and  sings  on  flittering  wings, 
A wo-worn  ghaist,  I hameward  glide. 

Come,  Winter,  with  thine  angry  howl, 
And,  raging,  bend  the  naked  tree , 

Thy  gloom  will  soothe  my  cheerless  soul, 
When  Nature  all  is  sad  like  me! 


MARY  MORISON. 

Tune  — “ Bide  ye  yet.” 

O Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wish’d,  the  trysted  hour! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 
That  make  the  miser’s  treasure  poor  ; 
How  blithely  wad  I bide  the  stoure, 

A weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun; 

Could  I the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison 


Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string, 
The  dance  gaed  thro’  the  lighted  ha’, 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, — 

I sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw ! 

Tho’  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  you  the  toast  of  a’  the  town, 

I sigh’d,  and  said  amang  them  a’, 

“Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison.” 


412 


BURIN's’s  POEMS. 


O Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 
Wha  for  thy  sake  would  gladly  die  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 
Whase  only  fault  is  loving  thee? 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown: 

A thought  ungentle  canna  be, 

The  thought  o’  Mary  Morison. 

• 




FAIR  JENNY. 

Tune  — “ Saw  ye  my  father  ? ” 

Where  are  the  joys  that  I’ve  met  in  the  morning, 
That  danc’d  to  the  lark’s  early  song? 

Where  is  the  peace  that  awaited  my  wand’ring. 
At  evening,  the  wild  woods  among? 

No  more  a-winding  the  course  of  yon  river, 

And  marking  sweet  flow’rets  so  fair; 

No  more  I trace  the  light  footsteps  of  pleasure, 
But  sorrow  and  sad  sighing  care. 

Is  it  that  Summer’s  forsaken  our  valleys, 

And  grim,  surly  Winter  is  near? 

No,  no ! the  bees  humming  round  the  gay  roses, 
Proclaim  it  the  pride  of  the  year. 

Fain  would  I hide  what  I fear  to  discover, 

Yet  long,  long  too  well  have  I known 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  413 

All  that  has  caused  this  wreck  in  my  bosom, 

Is  Jenny,  fair  Jenny  alone. 

Time  cannot  aid  me,  my  griefs  are  immortal, 

Nor  hope  dare  a comfort  bestow: 

Come  then,  enamor’d  and  fond  of  my  anguish, 
Enjoyment  I’ll  seek  in  my  wo. 

— — < 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  WOOD-LARK. 

Tune  — u JVhere’U  bonie  Ann  lie  ? ” Or,  “ Loch  ErocJi * 
side” 

O stay,  sweet- warbling  wood-lark,  stay, 

Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray; 

A hapless  lover  courts  thy  lay, 

Thy  soothing,  fond  complaining. 

Again,  again  that  tender  part, 

That  I may  catch  thy  melting  art ; 

For  surely  that  wad  touch  her  heart, 

Wha  kills  me  wi’  disdaining. 

Say,  was  thy  little  mate  unkind, 

And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind? 

Oh,  nocht  but  love  and  sorrow  join’d, 

Sic  notes  o’  wo  could  wauken. 

Thou  tells  of  never-ending  care ; 

O’  speechless  grief  and  dark  despair; 

For  pity’s  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair ' 

Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken  1 
35* 


4J4  burns’s  poems. 


FRAGMENT, 

in  Witherspoon’s  collection  of  scot’s  songs. 

Air  — “ Hughie  Graham .” 

O were  my  love  yon  lilac  fair, 

Wi’  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring ; 

And  I a bird  to  shelter  there, 

When  wearied  on  my  little  wing: 

How  wad  I mourn  when  it  was  torn 
By  autumn  wild,  and  winter  rude ! 

But  I wad  sing  on  wanton  wing, 

When  youthful  May  its  bloom  renew’d.* 

“ O gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose, 

That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa’, 

And  I mysel’  a drap  o’  dew 
Into  her  bonie  breast  to  fa’! 

“ O,  there  beyond  expression  blest, 

I’d  feast  on  beauty  a’  the  night; 

Seal’d  on  her  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest, 

Till  fley’d  awa  by  Phoebus’  light.” 


* These  stanzas  were  prefixed  by  Burns. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


415 


ADDRESS  TO  A LADY. 

On,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast, 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 

My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I’d  shelter  thee,  I’d  shelter  thee: 

Or  did  misfortune’s  bitter  storms 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 
Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom, 

To  share  it  a’,  to  share  it  a’. 

Or  were  I in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  bare,  sae  black  and  bare, 
The  desert  were  a paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there: 
Or  were  I monarch  o’  the  globe, 

Wi’  thee  to  reign,  wi’  thee  to  reign, 
The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen 


THE  AULD  MAN. 

But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green, 

The  woods  rejoice  the  day ; 

Thro’  gentle  show’rs  the  laughing  flow’rs 
In  double  pride  were  gay. 


416  BURNs’s  POEMS 

But  now  our  joys  are  fled 
On  winter  blasts  awa; 

Yet  maiden  May,  in  rich  array, 

Again  shall  bring  them  a’. 

But  my  white  pow,  nae  kindly  thowe 
Shall  melt  the  snaws  of  age ; 

My  trunk  of  eild,  but  buss  or  bield, 
Sinks  in  Time’s  wint’ry  rage. 

Oh,  age  has  weary  days, 

And  nights  o’  sleepless  pain; 

Thou  golden  time  o’  youthful  prime, 
Why  com’st  thou  not  again  ? 


JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  were  first  acquent, 

Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 
Your  bonie  brow  was  brent ; 

But  now  your  brow  is  beld,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snow: 

But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 

And  monie  a canty  day,  John, 
We’ve  had  wi’  ane  anither; 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  417 

Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we’ll  go, 

And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  min’  ? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  days  o’  lang  syne  ? 

CHORUS. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne ; 

We’ll  tak  a cup  o’  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu’t  the  gowans  fine; 

But  we’ve  wander’d  monie  a weary  foot, 
Sin’  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  &c. 

We  twa  hae  paidl’t  i’  the  burn, 

Frae  mornin’  sun  till  dine ; 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar’d, 
Sin’  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  &c. 


418  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

And  here’s  a hand,  my  trusty  here, 

And  gie’s  a hand  o’  thine; 

And  we’ll  tak  a right  guid  willie-waught, 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  &c. 

And  surely  ye’ll  be  your  pint-stowp, 

And  surely  I’ll  be  mine ; 

And  we’ll  tak  a cup  o’  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  &c. 


-o* 


HOPELESS  LOVE. 

Tune  — “ Liggeram  Cosh” 

Blithe  hae  I been  on  yon  hill, 

As  the  lambs  before  me ; 

Careless  ilka  thought  and  free, 

As  the  breeze  flew  o’er  me : 

Now  nae  longer  sport  and  play, 
Mirth  nor  sang  can  please  me ; 

Lesley  is  sae  fair  and  coy, 

Care  and  anguish  seize  me. 

Heavy,  heavy,  is  the  task, 

Hopeless  love  declaring: 

Trembling,  I dow  nocht  but  glow’r, 
Sighing,  dumb,  despairing! 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


419 


If  sho  winna  ease  the  thraws, 
In  my  bosom  swelling, 
Underneath  the  grass-green  sod 
Soon  maun  be  my  dwelling. 




BANKS  OF  NITH. 

Tune  — “ Robie  Donna  Gorach 

The  Thames  flows  proudly  to  the  sea, 
Where  royal  cities  stately  stand; 

But  sweeter  flows  the  Nith  to  me, 

Where  Commons  ance  had  high  command! 

When  shall  I see  that  honor’d  land, 

That  winding  stream  I love  so  dear  P 

Must  wayward  Fortune’s  adverse  hand 
For  ever,  ever  keep  me  here  ? 

How  lovely,  Nith,  thy  fruitful  vales, 

Where  spreading  hawthorns  gaily  bloom ! 

How  sweetly  wind  thy  sloping  dales, 

Where  lambkins  wanton  thro’  the  broom! 

Tho’  wand’ring,  now,  must  be  my  doom, 

Far  from  thy  bonie  banks  and  braes, 

May  there  my  latest  hours  consume, 

Arnang  the  friends  of  early  days ! 


420  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


BANKS  OF  CREE. 

Here  is  the  glen,  and  here  the  bow’r, 
All  underneath  the  birchen  shade; 
The  village  bell  has  told  the  hour: 

O what  can  stay  my  lovely  maid  ? 

’Tis  not  Maria’s  whisp’ring  call; 

’Tis  but  the  balmy-breathing  gale, 
Mixt  with  some  warbler’s  dying  call, 
The  dewy  star  of  eve  to  hail. 

It  is  Maria’s  voice  I hear! 

So  calls  the  wood-lark,  in  the  grove, 
His  little  faithful  mate  to  cheer: 

At  once  ’tis  music  — and  ’tis  love. 

And  art  thou  come  ? and  art  thou  true  ? 

O welcome,  dear  to  love  and  me ! 

And  let  us  all  our  vows  renew, 

Along  the  flow’ry  banks  of  Cree. 


CASTLE  GORDON. 

Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains, 

Never  bound  by  winter’s  chains  ; 

Glowing  here  on  golden  sands,  i 

There  commix’d  with  foulest  stains 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  421 

From  tyranny’s  empurpl’d  bands  ; 

These,  their  richly-gleaming  waves, 

I leave  to  tyrants  and  their  slaves ; 

Give  me  the  stream  that  sweetly  laves 
The  banks  by  Castle  Gordon. 

Spicy  forests,  ever  gay, 

Shading  from  the  burning  ray 
Hapless  wretches  sold  to  toil, 

Or  the  ruthless  native’s  way, 

Bent  on  slaughter,  blood,  and  spoil ; 

Woods  that  ever  verdant  wave, 

I leave  the  tyrant  and  his  slave; 

Give  me  the  groves  that  lofty  brave 
The  storms  by  Castle  Gordon. 

Wildly  here,  without  control, 

Nature  reigns,  and  rules  the  whole ; 

In  that  sober,  pensive  mood, 

Dearest  to  the  feeling  soul, 

She  plants  the  forest,  pours  the  flood ; 

Life’s  poor  day  I’ll  musing  rave, 

And  find  at  night  a shelt’ring  cave, 

Where  waters  flow  and  wild  woods  wave, 

By  bonie  Castle  Gordon. 

36 


422 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


AFTON  WATER. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes ; 
Flow  gently,  I’ll  sing  thee  a song  in  thy  praise: 

My  Mary’s  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro’  the  glen, 
Ye  wild-whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 

Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear; 

I charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring  hills, 

Far  mark’d  by  the  courses  of  clear,  winding  rills; 
There  daily  I wander,  as  noon  rises  high, 

My  flocks  and  my  Mary’s  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow; 
There,  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea, 

The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  gently  it  glides, 

And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides : 

How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 

As,  gath’ring  sweet  flow’rets,  she  stems  thy  clear  wave* 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays: 

My  Mary’s  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream; 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 


BURNS'S  POEMS. 


423 


THE  SACRED  VOW. 

Tune  — “ Allan  Water” 

By  Allan  stream  I chanc’d  to  rove, 

While  Phoebus  sank  below  Benleddi ; # 

The  winds  were  whisp’ring  through  the  grove, 
The  yellow  corn  was  waving  ready : 

I listen’d  to  a lover’s  sang, 

And  thought  on  youthfu’  pleasures  monie; 

And  ay  the  wild- wood  echoes  rang  — 

O,  dearly  do  I love  thee,  Annie ! 

O,  happy  be  the  woodbine  bow’r, 

Nae  nightly  bogle  make  it  eerie ; 

Nor  ever  sorrow  stain  the  hour, 

The  place  and  time  I met  my  dearie  ! 

Her  head  upon  my  throbbing  breast, 

She,  sinking,  said,  “ I’m  thine  for  ever ! ” 

While  monie  a kiss  the  seal  imprest, 

The  sacred  vow  we  ne’er  should  sever. 

The  haunt  o’  Spring’s  the  primrose  brae, 

The  Summer  joys  the  flocks  to  follow; 

How  cheery,  through  her  short’ning  day, 

Is  Autumn  in  her  weeds  o’  yellow: 


A mountain  west  of  Strath-Allan,  3000  feet  high. 


424  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

But  can  they  melt  the  glowing  heart, 

Or  chain  the  soul  in  speechless  pleasure, 
Or  thro’  each  nerve  the  rapture  dart, 

Like  meeting  her,  our  bosom’s  treasure? 


THE  RIGS  O’  BARLEY. 

Tune  — “ Com  rigs  are  bonie 

It  was  upon  a Lammas  night, 

When  corn  rigs  are  bonie, 

Beneath  the  moons  unclouded  light, 

I held  awa  to  Annie : 

The  time  flew  by  tentless  heed, 

Till  ’tween  the  late  and  early, 

Wi’  sma’  persuasion  she  agreed 
To  see  me  through  the  barley. 

The  sky  was  blue,  the  wind  was  still, 
The  moon  was  shining  clearly; 

I sat  her  down  wi’  right  good  will, 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley: 

I kent  her  heart  was  a’  my  ain ; 

I lov’d  her  most  sincerely ; 

I kiss’d  her  owre  and  owre  again, 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley ! 

I lock’d  her  in  my  fond  embrace ; 

Her  heart  was  beating  rarely ; 

My  blessings  on  that  happy  place 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley! 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  425 

But,  by  the  moon  and  stars  so  bright, 

That  shone  that  hour  so  clearly; 

She  ay  shall  bless  that  happy  night, 

Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley! 

I hae  been  blithe  wi’  comrades  dear* 

I hae  been  merry  drinkin’ ; 

I hae  been  joyfu’  gath’rin’  gear ; 

I hae  been  happy*  thinkin’ : 

But  a’  the  pleasures  e’er  I saw, 

Tho’  three  times  doubled  fairly, 

That  happy  night  was  worth  them  a’, 

Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley  ! 

CHORUS. 

Corn  rigs,  an’  barley  rigs, 

Corn  rigs  are  bonie ; 

I’ll  ne’er  forget  that  happy  night, 

Amang  the  rigs  wi’  Annie. 


-e- 


THE  LEA-RIG. 

When,  o’er  the  hill,  the  eastern  star 
Tells  bughtin-time  is  near,  my  jo; 
And  owsen  frae  the  furrow’d  field, 
Return  sae  dowf  and  weary,  O ; 
Down  by  the  burn,  where  scented  birks 
Wi’  dew  are  hanging  clear,  my  jo. 
I’ll  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 

3 6* 


426 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


In  mirkest  glen,  at  midnight  hour, 

I’d  rove,  and  ne’er  be  eerie,  O, 

If  thro’  that  glen  I gaed  to  thee, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 

Altho’  the  night  were  ne’er  sae  wild, 
And  I were  ne’er  sae  wearie,  O, 
I’d  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 


The  hunter  lo’es  the  morning  sun, 

To  rouse  the  mountain  deer,  my  jo; 
At  noon  the  fisher  seeks  the  glen, 
Along  the  bum  to  steer,  my  jo : 
Give  me  the  hour  o’  gloamin’  gray, 

It  maks  my  heart  sae  cheerie,  O, 

To  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 


THE  LASS  OF  BALLOCIIMYLE. 

’Twas  ev’n  — the  dewy  fields  were  green, 
On  ev’ry  blade  the  pearls  hang ; 

The  zephyr  -wanton’d  round  the  bean, 

And  bore  its  fragrant  sweets  alang: 

In  ev’ry  glen  the  mavis  sang, 

All  nature  list’ning  seem’d  the  while, 
Except  where  greenwood  echoes  rang, 
Amang  the  braes  o’  Ballochmyle. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


427 


With  careless  step  I onward  stray’d, 

My  heart  rejoic’d  in  nature’s  joy, 

When  musing  in  a lonely  glade, 

A maiden  fair  I chanc’d  to  spy: 

Her  look  was  like  the  morning’s  eye, 

Her  air  like  Nature’s  vernal  smile, 
Perfection  whisper’d,  passing  by, 

“ Behold  the  lass  o’  Ballochmyle  ! ” 

Fair  is  the  morn  in  flow’ry  May, 

And  sweet  is  night  in  Autumn  mild, 
When  roving  thro’  the  garden  gay, 

Or  wand’ring  in  the  lonely  wild: 

But  Woman,  Nature’s  darling  child! 

There  all  her  charms  she  does  compile ; 
Ev’n  there  her  other  works  are  foil’d, 

By  the  bonie  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 

O,  had  she  been  a country  maid, 

And  I the  happy  country  swain, 

Tho’  shelter’d  in  the  lowest  shed 
That  ever  rose  in  Scotland’s  plain! 

Thro’  weary  winter’s  wind  and  rain, 

With  joy,  with  rapture,  I would  toil, 
And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 
The  bonie  lass  o’  Ballochmyle! 

Then  pride  might  climb  the  slipp’ry  steep 
Where  fame  and  honors  lofty  shine ; 
And  thirst  of  gold  might  tempt  the  deep, 
Or  downward  seek  the  Indian  mine : 
Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine, 

To  tend  the  flocks,  or  till  the  soil, 

And  ev’ry  day  have  joys  divine, 

Wi’  the  bonie  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 


428  Burns’s  poems. 


BONIE  LESLEY. 

O saw  ye  bonie  Lesley, 

As  she  gaed  o’er  the  border? 

She’s  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther* 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 

And  love  but  her  for  ever; 

For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  ne’er  made  sic  anither ! 

Thou  art  a queen,  fair  Lesley, 

Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee ; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 

The  hearts  o’  men  adore  thee. 

The  Deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee, 

Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee; 

He’d  look  into  thy  bonie  face, 

And  say,  u I canna  wrang  thee.” 

The  Pow’rs  aboon  will  tent  thee; 
Misfortune  sha’  na  steer  thee; 

Thou’rt  like  themselves,  sae  lovely, 
That  ill  they’ll  ne’er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie! 

That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a lass 
There’s  nane  again  sae  bonie. 


e urns’s  poems.  429 


BONIE  JEAN. 

There  was  a lass,  and  she  was  fair, 

At  kirk  and  market  to  be  seen ; 

When  a’  the  fairest  maids  were  met, 

The  fairest  maid  was  bonie  Jean. 

And  ay  she  wrought  her  mammie’s  wark, 
And  ay  she  sang  sae  merrilie; 

The  blithest  bird  upon  the  bush 
Had  ne’er  a lighter  heart  than  she. 

But  hawks  will  rob  the  tender  joys 
That  bless  the  little  lintwhite’s  nest; 

And  frost  will  blight  the  fairest  flowers, 
And  love  will  break  the  soundest  rest. 

Young  Robie  was  the  bra  west  lad, 

The  flow’r  and  pride  of  a’  the  glen ; 

And  he  had  owsen,  sheep,  and  kye, 

And  wanton  nagies  nine  or  ten. 

He  gaed  wi’  Jeanie  to  the  tryste, 

He  danc’d  wi’  Jeanie  on  the  down ; 

And,  lang  ere  witless  Jeanie  wist, 

Her  heart  was  tint,  her  peace  was  stowiu 

As,  in  the  bosom  o’  the  stream, 

The  moonbeam  dwells  at  dewy  e’en, 

So,  trembling,  pure,  was  tender  love, 

Within  the  breast  o’  bonie  Jean. 


430  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

And  now  she  works  her  mammie’s  wark, 
And  ay  she  sighs  wi’  care  and  pain ; 

Yet  wist  na  what  her  ail  might  be, 

Or  what  wad  make  her  weel  again. 

But  did  na  Jeanie’s  heart  loup  light, 

And  did  na  joy  blink  in  her  e’e, 

As  Robie  tauld  a tale  o’  love, 

An  e’enin’,  on  the  lily  lea  ? 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west, 

The  birds  sang  sweet  in  ilka  grove: 

His  cheek  to  hers  he  fondly  prest 
And  whisper’d  thus  his  tale  o’  love: 

O Jeanie  fair!  I lo’e  thee  dear; 

O canst  thou  think  to  fancy  me? 

Or  wilt  thou  leave  thy  mammie’s  cot, 
And  learn  to  tent  the  farms  wi’  me  ? 

At  barn  or  byre  thou  shalt  na  drudge, 
Or  naething  else  to  trouble  thee ; 

But  stray  amang  the  heather-bells, 

And  tent  the  waving  corn  wi’  me. 

Now  what  could  artless  Jenny  do  ? 

She  had  na  will  to  say  him  na: 

At  length  she  blush’d  a sweet  consent, 
And  love  was  ay  between  them  twa. 


BURNS  S POEMS. 


431 


DAINTY  DAVIE. 

Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi’  flowers, 

To  deck  her  gay,  green-spreading  bowers; 
And  now  comes  in  my  happy  hours, 

To  wander  wi’  my  Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet  me  on  the  warlock  knowe, 

Dainty  Davie,  jainty  Davie  ; « 

There  I’ll  spend  the  day  wi’  you, 

My  ain  dear  dainty  Davie. 

The  crystal  waters  round  us  fa’, 

The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a’ ; 

The  scented  breezes  round  us  blaw, 
A-wandering  wi’  my  Davie. 

Meet  me,  &c. 

When  purple  morning  starts  the  hare, 

To  steal  upon  her  early  fare, 

Then  thro’  the  dews  I will  repair, 

To  meet  my  faithfu’  Davie. 

Meet  me,  &c. 

When  day,  expiring  in  the  west, 

The  curtain  draws  o’  Nature’s  rest, 

I flee  to  his  arms  I lo’e  best, 

And  that’s  my  ain  dear  Davie. 


432  BURIES  POEMS. 

CHORUS. 

Meet  me  on  the  warlock  knowe, 
Bonie  Davie,  dainty  Davie, 
There  I’ll  spend  the  day  wi’  you, 
My  ain  dear  dainty  Davie. 


TO  JEANIE. 

Air  — “ Cauld  Kail” 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast, 
And  pledge  we  ne’er  shall  sunder; 

And  I shall  spurn,  as  vilest  dust, 

The  warld’s  wealth  and  grandeur. 

And  do  I hear  my  Jeanie  own, 

That  equal  transports  move  her? 

I ask  for  dearest  life,  alone, 

That  I may  live  to  love  her. 

Thus  in  my  arms,  wi’  all  thy  charms, 
I clasp  my  countless  treasure; 

I’ll  seek  nae  mair  o’  heaven  to  share, 
Than  sic  a moment’s  pleasure: 

And  by  thy  een,  sae  bonie  blue, 

I swear  I’m  thine  for  ever: 

And  on  thy  lips  I seal  my  vow, 

And  break  it  shall  I never. 


burns’s  POEMS.  433 


CLOUDEN  KNOWES. 

Tune  — “ Ca’  the  Yowes  to  the  knoives.” 

CHORUS. 

Ca’  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 

Ca’  them  whare  the  heather  graws, 
Ca’  them  whare  the  burnie  rows, 

My  borne  dearie. 

Hark,  the  mavis’  evening  sang, 
Sounding  Clouden’s  woods  amang; 

Then  a-faulding  let  us  gang, 

My  bonie  dearie. 

Ca’  the,  &c. 

• 

We’ll  gae  down  by  Clouden  side, 

Thro’  the  hazels  spreading  wide, 

O’er  the  waves  that  sweetly  glide 
To  the  moon  sae  clearly, 

Ca’  the,  &c. 

Yonder  Clouden’s  silent  tow’rs, 

Where  at  moonshine  midnight  hours, 
O’er  the  dewy  bending  flowers, 

Fairies  dance  sae  cheery. 

Ca’  the,  &c. 

Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear; 
Thou’rt  to  love  and  heaven  sae  dear, 

37 


434 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  near, 
My  bonie  dearie. 

Ca’  the,  &c. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart; 

I can  die  — but  canna  part, 

My  bonie  dearie. 

Ca’  the,  &c. 


LOVELY  NANCY. 

Tune  — “ The  Quaker’s  JVrftP 

Tiiine  am  I,  my  faithful  fair, 
Thine,  my  lovely  Nancy; 

Ev’ry  pulse  along  my  veins, 

Ev’ry  roving  fancy. 

To  thy  bosom  lay  my  heart, 
There  to  throb  and  languish: 
Tho’  despair  had  wrung  its  core, 
That  would  heal  its  anguish. 

Take  away  those  rosy  lips, 

Rich  with  balmy  treasure; 

Turn  away  thine  eyes  of  love, 
Lest  I die  with  pleasure. 

What  is  life  when  wanting  love? 

Night  without  a morning: 
Love’s  the  cloudless  summer  sky, 
Nature’s  gay  adorning. 


BURNS’S  TOEMS.  435 


TO  CHLORIS. 

Tune  — “ lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground  ” 

My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves, 
The  primrose-banks,  how  fair! 

The  balmy  gales  awake  the  flowers, 

And  wave  thy  flaxen  hair. 

The  lav’rock  shuns  the  palace  gay, 

And  o’er  the  cottage  sings; 

For  nature  smiles  as  sweet,  I ween, 

To  shepherds  as  to  kings. 

Let  minstrels  sweep  the  skilfu’  string 
In  lordly  lighted  ha’ ; 

The  shepherd  stops  his  simple  reed, 

Blithe,  in  the  birken  shaw. 

The  princely  revel  may  survey 
Our  rustic  dance  wi’  scorn; 

But  are  their  hearts  as  light  as  ours, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn? 

The  shepherd,  in  the  flowery  glen, 

In  shepherd’s  phrase  will  woo; 

The  courtier  tells  a finer  tale, 

But  is  his  heart  as  true? 

These  wild-wood  flowers,  I’ve  pu’d,  to  deck 
That  spotless  breast  o’  thine ; 

The  courtier’s  gems  may  witness  love  — 
But  ’tis  na  love  like  mine. 


436  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


LASSIE  WP  THE  LINTWHITE  LOCKS. 
Tune  — “ Rofhemurche’s  Rant? 

CHORUS. 

Lassie  wi’  the  lintwhite  locks, 

Bonie  lassie,  artless  lassie, 

Wilt  thou  wi’  me  tent  the  flocks, 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie,  O P 

Now  nature  deeds  the  flowery  lea, 

And  a’  is  young  and  sweet  like  thee ; 

O wilt  thou  share  its  joys  wi’  me, 

And  say  thou’lt  be  my  dearie,  O? 

Lassie,  &c. 

And  when  the  welcome  simmer  shower 
Has  cheer’d  ilk  drooping  little  flower, 

We’ll  to  the  breathing  woodbine  bowe 
At  sultry  noon,  my  dearie,  O. 

Lassie,  &c. 

When  Cynthia  lights,  wi’  silver  ray, 

The  weary  shearer’s  hameward  way; 

Thro’  yellow  waving  fields  we’ll  stray, 

And  talk  o’  love,  my  dearie,  O. 

Lassie,  &c. 

And  when  the  howling  wintry  blast 
Disturbs  my  lassie’s  midnight  rest, 

Enclasped  to  my  faithfu’  breast, 

I’ll  comfort  thee,  my  dearie,  O. 

Lassie,  &e. 


' — 

BURNS’S  POEMS.  437 


CHLORIS. 

O bonie  was  yon  rosy  brier, 

That  blooms  sae  far  frae  haunts  o’  man; 
And  bonie  she,  and  ah,  how  dear! 

It  shaded  frae  the  e’enin’  sun. 

Yon  rose-buds  in  the  morning  dew, 

How  pure  amang  the  leaves  sae  green! 
But  purer  was  the  lover’s  vow 

They  witness’d  in  their  shade  yestreen. 

All  in  its  rude  and  prickly  bower, 

That  crimson  rose  how  sweet  and  fair! 
But  love  is  far  a sweeter  flower, 

Amid  life’s  thorny  path  o’  care. 

The  pathless  wild,  and  wimpling  burn, 

Wi’  Chloris  in  my  arms,  be  mine; 

And  I the  world,  nor  wish,  nor  scorn, 

Its  joys  and  griefs  alike  resign. 



THE  ROSE-BUD. 

A rose-bud  by  my  early  walk, 

Adown  a corn-enclosed  bawk, 

Sae  gently  bent  its  thorny  stalk, 

All  on  a dewy  morning. 

37* 


438  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Ere  twice  the  shades  o’  dawn  are  fled, 

In  a’  its  crimson  glory  spread, 

And  drooping  rich  ther  dewy  head, 

It  scents  the  early  morning. 

Within  the  bush,  her  covert  nest, 

A little  linnet  fondly  prest; 

The  dew  sat  chilly  on  her  breast 
Sae  early  in  the  morning. 

She  soon  shall  see  her  tender  brood, 

The  pride,  the  pleasure  o’  the  wood, 
Amang  the  fresh  green  leaves  bedew’d, 
Awake  the  early  morning. 

So  thou,  dear  bird,  young  Jenny  fair, 

On  trembling  string  or  vocal  air, 

Shall  sweetly  pay  the  tender  care 
That  tents  thy  early  morning. 

So  thou,  sweet  rose-bud,  young  and  gay, 
Shall  beauteous  blaze  upon  the  day, 

And  bless  the  parent’s  evening  ray 
That  watch’d  thy  early  morning. 


THE  BIRKS  OF  ABERFELDY. 

CHORUS. 

Bonie  lassie,  will  ye  go,  will  ye  go,  will  ye  go, 
Bonie  lassie,  will  ye  go  to  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy? 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  439 

Now  simmer  blinks  on  fiow’ry  braes, 

And  o’er  the  crystal  streamlet  plays, 

Come,  let  us  spend  the  lightsome  days 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonie  lassie,  &c. 

While  o’er  their  heads  the  hazels  hing, 

The  little  birdies  blithely  sing, 

Or  lightly  flit,  on  wanton  wing, 

In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonie  lassie,  &c. 

The  braes  ascend  like  lofty  wa’s, 

The  foaming  stream  deep-roaring  fa’s, 

O’erhung  wi’  fragrant,  spreading  shaws, 

The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonie  lassie,  &c. 

The  hoary  cliffs  are  crown’d  wi’  flow’rs, 

While  o’er  the  linns  the  burnie  pours, 

And,  rising,  weets,  wi’  misty  show’rs, 

The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

feBonie  lassie,  &c. 

Let  Fortune’s  gifts  at  random  flee, 

They  ne’er  shall  draw  a wish  frae  me, 
Supremely  blest  wi’  love  and  thee, 

In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonie  lassie,  &c 


440  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


THIS  IS  NO  MY  AIN  LASSIE. 
Tune  — “ This  is  no  my  ain  House.” 

CHORUS. 

O this  is  no  my  ain  lassie, 

Fair  tho’  the  lassie  be ; 

O weel  ken  I my  ain  lassie, 

Kind  love  is  in  her  e’e. 

I see  a form,  I see  a face, 

Ye  weel  may  wi’  the  fairest  place; 

It  wants,  to  me,  the  witching  grace, 
The  kind  love  that’s  in  her  e’e. 

O this,  &c. 

She’s  bonie,  blooming,  straight  and  tall, 
And  lang  has  had  my  heart  in  thrall; 
And  ay  it  charms  my  very  saul, 

The  kind  love  that’s  in  her  e’e. 

O this,  &c. 

A thief  sae  pawkie  is  my  Jean, 

To  steal  a blink  by  a’  unseen; 

But  gleg  as  light  are  lovers’  een, 

When  kind  love  is  in  the  e’e. 

O this,  &c. 

It  may  escape  the  courtly  sparks, 

It  may  escape  the  learned  clerks ; 

But  weel  the  watching  lover  marks 
The  kind  love  that’s  in  her  e’e. 

O this,  &c. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  441 


CONSTANCY. 

Tune  — “My  love  is  lost  to  me” 

O,  were  I on  Parnassus’  hill! 

Or  had  of  Helicon  my  fill ; 

That  I might  catch  poetic  skill, 

To  sing  how  dear  I love  thee. 

But  Nith  maun  be  my  Muse’s  well, 

My  Muse  maun  be  thy  bonie  sel’ : 

On  Corsincon  I’ll  glow’r  and  spell, 

And  write  how  dear  I love  thee.  • 

Then  come,  sweet  Muse,  inspire  my  lay! 

For  a’  the  lee-lang  simmer’s  day, 

I could  na  sing,  I could  na  say 

How  much,  how  dear  I love  thee. 

I see  thee  dancing  o’er  the  green, 

Thy  waist  sae  jimp,  thy  limbs  sae  clean, 

Thy  tempting  lips,  thy  roguish  een  — 

By  heaven  and  earth,  I love  thee ! 

By  night,  by  day,  a-field,  at  hame, 

The  thoughts  o’  thee  my  breast  inflame; 

And  ay  I muse  and  sing  thy  name, 

I only  live  to  love  thee. 


442  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Though  I were  doom’d  to  wander  on, 
Beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sun, 

Till  my  last  w'eary  sand  was  run ; 

Till  then  — and  then  I love  thee. 


PEGGY’S  CHARMS. 

Tune  — “JY.  Cow's  Lamentation  for  Abercaimy 

Where  braving  angry  winter’s  storms, 

The  lofty  Ochels  rise, 

Far  in  their  shade  my  Peggy’s  charms, 
First  blest  my  wondering  eyes ; 

As  one  who  by  some  savage  stream, 

A lonely  gem  surveys, 

Astonish’d,  doubly  marks  its  beam, 

With  art’s  most  polish’d  blaze. 

Blest  be  the  wild  sequester’d  shade, 

And  blest  the  day  and  hour, 

Where  Peggy’s  charms  I first  survey’d, 
When  first  I felt  their  power! 

The  tyrant  Death,  with  grim  control, 

May  seize  my  fleeting  breath; 

But  tearing  Peggy  from  my  soul. 

Must  be  a stronger  death. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  443 


JESSY. 

Tune  — “Here’s  a health  to  them  that's  awa,  hiney” 

CHORUS. 

Here’s  a health  to  ane  I lo’e  dear, 

Here’s  a health  to  ane  I lo’e  dear; 

Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers  meet, 
And  soft  as  their  parting  tear  — Jessy! 

Altho’  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 

Altho’  even  hope  is  denied ; 

’Tis  sweeter  for  thee  despairing, 

Than  aught  in  the  world  beside  — Jessy! 

Here’s  &c. 

I mourn  thro’  the  gay,  gaudy  day, 

As  hopeless  I muse  on  thy  charms; 

But  welcome  the  dream  o’  sweet  slumber, 

For  then  I am  lock’d  in  thy  arms  — Jessy! 

Here’s  &c. 

I guess  by  the  dear  angel  smile, 

I guess  by  the  love-rolling  e’e; 

But  why  urge  the  tender  confession, 

’Gainst  fortune’s  fell,  cruel  decree  — Jessy! 

Here’s  &c. 


444  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


THE  BLUE-EYED  LASSIE. 

I gaed  a waefu’  gate,  yestreen, 

A gate,  I fear,  I’ll  dearly  rue : 

I gat  my  death  frae  twa  sweet  een, 

Twa  lovely  een  o’  bonie  blue. 

’Twas  not  her  golden  ringlets  bright, 

Her  lips  like  roses  wat  wi’  dew, 

Her  heaving  bosom,  lily  white : 

It  was  her  een  sae  bonie  blue. 

She  talk’d,  she  smil’d,  my  heart  she  wyl’d, 
She  charm’d  my  soul,  I wist  na  how ; 
And  ay  the  stound,  the  deadly  wound, 
Cam  frae  her  een  sae  bonie  blue. 

But  spare  to  speak,  and  spare  to  speed ; 

She’ll  aiblins  listen  to  my  vow : 

Should  she  refuse,  I’ll  lay  my  dead 
To  her  twa  een  sae  bonie  blue. 


WILT  THOU  BE  MY  DEARIE? 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie? 

When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart, 
O wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  ? 

By  the  treasure  of  my  soul, 

And  that’s  the  love  I bear  thee! 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  445 

I swear  and  vow  that  only  thou 
Shall  ever  be  my  dearie: 

Only  thou,  I swear  and  vow, 

Shall  ever  bo  my  dearie. 

Lassie,  say  thou  lo’es  me ; 

Or,  if  thou  wilt  na  be  my  ain, 

Say  na  thou’lt  refuse  me: 

If  it  winna,  canna  be, 

Thou  for  thine  may  choose  me, 

Let  me,  lassie,  quickly  die, 

Trusting  that  thou  lo’es  me: 

Lassie,  let  me  quickly  die, 

Trusting  that  thou  lo’es  me. 


«£■ 


THE  BLISSFUL  DAY. 

Tune  — “ Seventh  of  November 

The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns, 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet, 

Tho’  winter  wild  in  tempest  toil’d, 

Ne’er  summer  sun  was  half  sae  sweet: 

Than  a’  the  pride  that  loads  the  tide, 

And  crosses  o’er  the  sultry  line  ; 

Than  kingly  robes,  than  crowns  and  globes, 
Heaven  gave  me  more — it  made  thee  mine* 

While  day  and  night  can  bring  delight, 

Or  nature  aught  of  pleasure  give; 

While  joys  above,  my  mind  can  move, 

For  thee,  and  thee  alone,  I live ! 

33 


446  BURNs’s  POEMS. 

When  that  grim  foe  of  life  below 
Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part; 

The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band, 

It  breaks  my  bliss  — it  breaks  my  heart. 


LOVELY  JEAN 

Tune  — “ Miss  Admiral  Gordon's  Strathspey 

Of  a’  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I dearly  like  the  west ; 

For  there  the  bonie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I lo’e  best. 

There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 
And  monie  a hill  between; 

But,  day  and  night,  my  fancy’s  flight 
Is  ever  wi’  my  Jean. 

I see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I see  her  sweet  and  fair; 

I hear  her  in  the  tunefu’  birds, 

I hear  her  charm  the  air: 

There’s  not  a bonie  flower  that  springs 
By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green ; 

There’s  not  a bonie  bird  that  sings, 

But  minds  me  o’  my  Jean. 


BURNS  S POEMS.  447 


LUCY. 

O,  wat  ye  wha’s  in  yon  town, 

Ye  see  the  e’enin’  sun  upon  ? 

The  fairest  dame  is  in  yon  town, 

The  e’enin’  sun  is  shining  on. 

Now  haply  down  yon  gay,  green  shaw, 
She  wanders  by  yon  spreading  tree ; 

How  blest  ye  flow’rs  that  round  her  blaw, 
Ye  catch  the  glances  o’  her  e’e. 

How  blest  ye  birds  that  round  her  sing, 
And  welcome  in  the  blooming  year; 

And  doubly  welcome  be  the  spring, 

The  season  to  my  Lucy  dear. 

The  sun  blinks  blithe  on  yon  town, 

And  on  yon  bonie  braes  of  Ayr; 

But  my  delight  in  yon  town, 

And  dearest  bliss,  is  Lucy  fair. 

Without  my  love,  not  a’  the  charms 
O’  Paradise  could  yield  me  joy; 

But  gie  me  Lucy  in  my  arms, 

And  welcome  Lapland’s  dreary  sky ! 

My  cave  wad  be  a lover’s  bow’r, 

Tho’  raging  winter  rent  the  air; 

And  she  a lovely  little  flow’r, 

That  I wad  tent  and  shelter  there. 


448  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

O,  sweet  is  she  in  yon  town, 

Yon  sinking  sun’s  gaen  down  upon; 

A fairer  than  is  in  yon  town, 

His  setting  beams  ne’er  shone  upon. 

If  PMgry  fate  is  sworn  my  foe, 

And  suffering  I am  doom’d  to  bear; 

I careless  quit  all  else  below, 

But  spare  me,  spare  me,  Lucy  dear. 

For  while  life’s  dearest  blood  is  warm, 

Ae  thought  frae  her  shall  ne’er  depart, 

And  she  — as  fairest  is  her  form, 

She  has  the  truest,  kindest  heart. 


BLITHE  PHEMIE 

CHORUS. 

Blithe,  blithe  and  merry  was  she, 
Blithe  by  the  banks  of  Ern; 

And  blithe  was  she  but  an’  ben, 
And  blithe  in  Glenturit  glen. 

By  Oughtertyre  grows  the  aik, 

On  Yarrow  banks  the  birken  shaw ; 
But  Phemie  was  a bonier  lass 
Than  braes  o’  Yarrow  ever  saw 
Blithe,  &c. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 

449 

Her  looks  were  like  a flower  in  May, 
Her  smile  was  like  a simmer  morn; 
She  tripped  by  the  banks  of  Ern, 

As  light’s  a bird  upon  a thorn. 

Blithe,  &c. 

Her  bonie  face  it  was  as  meek 
As  onie  lamb  upon  a lea; 

The  evening  sun  was  ne’er  sae  sweet, 
As  was  the  blink  o’  Phemie’s  e’e. 
Blithe,  &c. 

The  Highland  hills  Pve  wander’d  wide, 
And  o’er  the  Lowlands  I hae  been ; 
But  Phemie  was  the  blithest  lass 
That  ever  trod  the  dewy  green. 

Blithe,  &c. 

CHARMING  NANNIE. 

Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows, 
’Mang  moors  and  mosses  many,  0, 
The  wintry  sun  the  day  has  clos’d, 
And  I’ll  awa  to  Nannie,  0. 

The  westlin  wind  blaws  loud  an’  shrill; 

The  night’s  baith  murk  and  rainy,  ® • 
But  I’ll  get  my  plaid,  an’  out  I’ll  steal 
An’  owre  the  hills  to  Nannie,  O. 

38* 

450 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


My  Nannie’s  charming,  sweet,  an’  young 
Nae  artfu’  wiles  to  win  ye,  O; 

May  ill  befa’  the  flattering  tongue 
That  wad  beguile  my  Nannie,  O. 

Her  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true, 

As  spotless  as  she’s  bonie,  O ; 

The  op’ning  gowan,  wet  wi’  dew 
Nae  purer  is  than  Nannie,  O. 

A country  lad  is  my  degree, 

An’  few  there  be  that  ken  me,  O ; 

But  what  care  I how  few  they  be, 

I’m  welcome  ay  to  Nannie,  O. 

My  riches  a’  ’s  my  penny-fee, 

An’  I maun  guide  it  cannie,  O ; 

But  warl’s  gear  ne’er  trouble  me, 

My  thoughts  are  a’  my  Nannie,  O. 

Our  auld  guidman  delights  to  view 
His  sheep  an’  kye  thrive  bonie,  O ; 

But  I’m  as  blithe  that  hauds  his  pleugh, 
An’  has  nae  care  but  Nannie,  O. 

Come  weal,  come  wo,  I care  na  by, 

I’ll  tak  what  heaven  will  sen’  me,  O; 

Nae  ither  care  in  life  have  I, 

But  live  an’  love  my  Nannie,  O. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  451 


GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES. 

A FRAGMENT. 

CHORUS. 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ! 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ! 

The  sweetest  hours  that  e’er  I spent, 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O ! 

There’s  nought  but  care  on  ev’ry  han’, 
In  ev’ry  hour  that  passes,  O ; 

What  signifies  the  life  o’  man, 

An’  twere  na  for  the  lasses,  O ? 

Green  grow,  &c. 

The  warly  race  may  riches  chase, 

An’  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O ; 

An’  tho’  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne’er  enjoy  them,  O. 
Green  grow,  &c. 

But  gie  me  a cannie  hour  at  e’en, 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O ; 

An’  warly  cares,  an’  warly  men, 

May  a’  gae  tapsalteerie,  O. 

Green  grow,  &c. 

For  you  sae  douse,  ye  sneer  at  this, 
Ye’re  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O ; 
The  wisest  man  the  warl’  e’er  saw, 


452 


BURNSES  POEMS. 


He  dearly  lov’d  the  lasses,  O. 

Green  grow,  &c. 

Auld  Nature  swears  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O ; 
Her  ’prentice  han’  she  tried  on  man, 
An’  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 
Green  grow,  &c. 


THE  HIGHLAND  LASSIE. 

Nae  gentle  dames,  tho’  e’er  sae  fair, 
Shall  ever  be  my  Muse’s  care; 

Their  titles  a’  are  empty  show, 

Gie  me  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

CHORUS. 

Within  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O, 
Aboon  the  plain  sae  rushy,  O, 

I set  me  down  wi’  right  good  will, 
To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Oh,  were  yon  hill  and  vallies  mine, 
Yon  palace  and  yon  gardens  line ! 

The  world  then  the  love  should  know 
I bear  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within,  &c. 

But  fickle  fortune  frowns  on  me, 

And  I maun  cross  the  raging  sea; 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  453 

But  while  the  crimson  currents  flow, 

I’ll  love  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within,  &c. 

Altho’  thro’  foreign  climes  I range, 

I know  her  heart  will  never  change ; 

For  her  bosom  burns  with  honor’s  glow, 

My  faithful  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within,  &c. 

For  her  I’ll  dare  the  billows’  roar, 

For  her  I’ll  trace  a distant  shore, 

That  Indian  wealth  may  lustre  throw 
Around  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within,  &c. 

She  has  my  heart,  she  has  my  hand, 

By  sacred  truth  and  honor’s  band ; 

Till  the  mortal  stroke  shall  lay  me  low, 

I’m  thine,  my  Highland  lassie,  O, 

Farewell  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O, 

Farewell  the  plain  sae  rushy,  O ; 

To  other  lands  I now  must  go, 

To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 


454 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


ANNA. 

Tune  — “ Banks  of  Bana ” 

Yestreen  I had  a pint  o’  wine, 

A place  where  body  saw  na; 

Yestreen  lay  on  this  breast  of  mine 
The  raven  locks  of  Anna. 

The  hungry  Jew,  in  wilderness, 
Rejoicing  o’er  his  manna, 

Was  naething  to  my  honey  bliss 
Upon  the  lips  of  Anna. 

Ye  monarchs,  take  the  east  and  west, 
Frae  Indus  to  Savannah ; 

Gie  rpe  within  my  straining  grasp, 
The  melting  form  of  Anna. 

Then  I’ll  despise  imperial  charms, 

An  empress  or  sultana; 

While  dying  raptures,  in  her  arms, 

I give  and  take  with  Anna. 

Awa,  thou  flaunting  god  of  day ! 

Awa,  thou  pale  Diana! 

Ilk  star  gae  hide  thy  twinkling  ray, 
When  I’m  to  meet  my  Anna. 

Come,  in  thy  raven  plumage,  Night! 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  withdraw  a’! 

And  bring  an  angel-pen  to  write 
My  transports  wi’  my  Anna ! 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


455 


THE  SPINNING-WHEEL. 

O leeze  me  on  my  spinning-wheel, 

O leeze  me  on  my  rock  and  reel; 

Frae  tap  to  tae  that  deeds  me  bien, 
And  haps  me  fiel  and  warm  at  e’en! 

I’ll  sit  me  down  and  sing  and  spin, 
While  laigh  descends  the  simmer  sin; 
Blest  wi’  content,  and  milk  and  meal  — 
O leeze  me  on  my  spinning-wheel. 

On  ilka  hand  the  burnies  trot, 

And  meet  below  my  theekit  cot; 

The  scented  birk  and  hawthorn  white 
Across  the  pool  their  arms  unite, 

Alike  to  screen  the  birdie’s  nest, 

And  little  fishes’  caller  rest ; 

The  sun  blinks  kindly  in  the  biel, 
Where  blithe  I turn  my  spinning-wheel 

On  lofly  aiks  the  cushats  wail, 

And  echo  cons  the  dolefu’  tale; 

The  lintwhites,  in  the  hazel  braes, 
Delighted,  rival  ither’s  lays : 

The  craik,  amang  the  claver  hay, 

The  paitrick,  whirrin’  o’er  the  ley, 

The  swallow,  jinkin’  round  my  shiel, 
Amuse  me  at  my  spinning-wheel. 


Wi’  sma’  to  sell,  and  less  to  buy, 
Aboon  distress,  below  envy, 


456  BURNs’s  POEMS. 

O wha  wad  leave  this  humble  state, 
For  a’  the  pride  of  a’  the  great? 
Amid  their  flaring,  idle  toys, 

Amid  their  cumbrous,  dinsome  joys, 
Can  they  the  peace  and  pleasure  feel 
Of  Bessy  at  her  spinning-wheel  ? 


THE  COUNTRY  LASSIE. 

In  simmer,  when  the  hay  was  mawn, 
And  corn  wav’d  green  in  ilka  field, 

While  claver  blooms  white  o’er  the  lea, 
And  roses  blaw  in  ilka  bield  ; 

Blithe  Bessie  in  the  milking  shiel, 

Says,  I’ll  be  wed,  come  o’t  what  will ; 

Out  spak  a dame  in  wrinkled  eild, 

O’  guid  advisement  comes  nae  ill. 

Its  ye  hae  wrnoers  monie  ane, 

And  lassie,  ye’re  but  young,  ye  ken; 

Then  wait  a wee,  and  cannie  wale, 

A routine  butt,  a routine  ben ; 

There’s  Johnnie,  o’  the  Buskie  glen, 

Fu’  is  his  barn,  fu’  is  his  byre ; 

Tak  this  frae  me,  my  bonie  hen, 

It’s  plenty  beets  the  luver’s  fire. 

For  Johnnie,  o’  the  Buskie-glen, 

I dinna  care  a single  flie ; 

He  lo’es  sae  weel  his  craps  and  kye, 

He  has  no  luve  to  spare  for  me: 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  457 

But  blithe’s  the  blink  o’  Robie’s  e’e, 

And  weel  I wat  he  lo’es  mo  dear; 

Ae  blink  o’  him  I wad  nae  gie 
For  Buskie-glen  and  a’  his  gear. 

O thoughtless  lassie  ! life’s  a faught ; 

The  canniest  gate,  the  strife  is  sair; 

But  ay  fu’  han’t  is  fechtin  best, 

A hungry  care’s  an  unco  care : 

But  some  will  spend,  and  some  will  spare, 

An’  willfu’  folk  maun  hae  their  will ; 

Syne  as  ye  brew,  my  maiden  fair, 

Keep  mind  that  ye  maun  drink  the  yill. 

O,  gear  will  buy  me  rigs  o’  land, 

And  gear  will  buy  me  sheep  and  kye ; 

But  the  tender  heart  o’  leesome  love 
The  gowd  and  siller  canna  buy: 

We  may  be  poor  — Robie  and  I, 

Light  is  the  burden  love  lays  on: 

Content  and  luve  brings  peace  and  joy  — 
What  mair  hae  queens  upon  a throne? 


TAM  GLEN. 

My  heart  is  a breaking,  dear  Tittie, 
Some  counsel  unto  me  come  len’ ; 
To  anger  them  a’  is  a pity, 

But  what  will  I do  wi’  Tam  Glen? 
39 


458  BURNS’s  POEMS. 

I’m  thinking',  wi’  sic  a braw  fellow, 

In  poortith  I might  make  a fen’; 

What  care  I in  riches  to  wallow, 

If  I maun  marry  Tam  Glen  ? 

There’s  Lowrie,  the  laird  o’  Drumeller, 
“Guid  day  to  you,  brute,”  he  comes  ben 

He  brags  an’  he  blaw  o’  his  siller, 

But  when  will  he  dance  like  Tam  Glen? 

My  minnie  does  constantly  deave  me, 

And  bids  me  beware  o’  young  men ; 

They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me ; 

But  wha  can  think  sae  o’  Tam  Glen? 

My  daddie  says,  gin  I’ll  forsake  him, 

He’ll  gie  me  guid  hunder  marks  ten ; 

But  if  it’s  ordain’d  I maun  tak  him, 

O wha  will  I get  but  Tam  Glen? 

Yestreen,  at  the  Valentine’s  dealing, 

My  heart  to  my  mou  gied  a sten; 

For  thrice  I drew  ane  without  failing, 

And  thrice  it  was  written  Tam  Glen. 

The  last  Halloween  I was  waukin 
My  droukit  sark-sleeve,  as  ye  ken; 

His  likeness  cam  up  the  house  staukin, 

In  the  very  gray  breeks  o’  Tam  Glen  l 

Some  counsel,  dear  Tittie,  don’t  tarry; 

I’ll  gie  ye  my  bonie  black  hen, 

Gif  ye  will  advise  me  to  marry 
The  lad  I lo’e  dearly,  Tam  Glen 


burns’s  poems. 


459 


SOMEBODY. 

My  heart  is  sair,  I dare  na  tell, 

My  heart  is  sair  for  somebody  1 
I could  wake  a winter  night, 

For  the  sake  o’  somebody. 

O-hon!  for  somebody! 

O-hey  ! for  somebody  ! 

I could  range  the  world  around, 

For  the  sake  o’  somebody. 

Ye  powers  that  smile  on  virtuous  love, 
O sweetly  smile  on  somebody ! 
Frae  ilka  danger  keep  him  free, 

And  send  me  safe  my  somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for  somebody  ! 

Oh-hey  ! for  somebody ! 

I wad  do  — what  wad  I not  ? — 

For  the  sake  o’  somebody ! 


O WHISTLE,  &c. 

CHORUS. 

O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad ; 

O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad; 

Tho’  father,  and  mither,  and  a’  should  go  mad, 
O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad. 

I 


460  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

But  warily  tent,  when  fe  come  to  court  me, 
And  come  na  unless  the  back-yett  be  a-jee ; 
Syne  up  the  back-stile,  and  let  naebody  see, 
And  come  as  ye  were  na  cornin’  to  me. 

And  come,  &c. 

O whistle,  &c. 

At  kirk,  or  at  market,  whene’er  ye  meet  me, 
Gang  by  me  as  tho’  that  ye  car’d  na  a flie : 
But  steal  me  a blink  o’  your  bonie  black  e’e, 
Yet  look  as  ye  were  na  lookin’  at  me. 

Yet  look,  &c. 

O whistle,  &c. 

Ay  vow  and  protest  that  ye  care  na  for  me, 
And  whyles  ye  may  lightly  my  beauty  a wee; 
But  court  na  anither,  tho’  jokin’  ye  be, 

For  fear  that  she  wyle  your  fancy  frae  me. 

For  fear,  &c. 

O whistle,  &c 


* 

ANE-AND-TWENTY. 

Tune  — “ The  Moudieivort .” 

CHORUS. 

An’  O for  ane-and-twenty,  Tam ! 

An’  hey,  sweet  ane-and-twenty,  Tam! 
I’ll  learn  my  kin  a rattlin’  sang, 

An’  I saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam  ’ 


EURNS’s  POEMS. 


461 


They  snool  me  sair,  and  baud  me  down, 
And  gar  me  look  like  bluntie,  Tam ! 

But  three  short  years  will  soon  wheel  roun’, 
And  then  comes  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 

An’  O,  &c. 

A gleib  o’  lan’,  a claut  o’  gear, 

Was  left  me  by  my  auntie,  Tam! 

At  kith  or  kin  I need  na  spier, 

An’  I saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 

An’  O,  &c. 

They’ll  hae  me  wed  a wealthy  coof, 

Tho’  I mysel’  hae  plenty,  Tam ! 

But  liear’st  thou,  laddie,  there’s  my  loof, 

I’m  thine  at  ane-and-twenty,  Tam, 

An’  O,  &c 


THE  YOUNG  LASSIE. 

What  can  a young  lassie,  what  shall  a young  lassie, 
What  can  a young  lassie  do  wi’  an  auld  man? 

Bad  luck  on  the  pennie  that  tempted  my  minnie 
To  sell  her  poor  Jennie  for  siller  an’  lan’! 

Bad  luck  on  the  penny,  &c. 

He’s  always  compleenin’  frae  mornin’  to  e’enin’, 

He  hosts  and  he  hirples  the  weary  day  lang; 

He’s  doylt  and  he’s  dozin’,  his  bluid  it  is  frozen. 

O dreary’s  the  night  wi’  a crazy  auld  man* 

39* 


462  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

He  hums  and  he  hankers,  he  frets  and  he  cankers , 

I never  can  please  him,  do  a’  that  I can ; 

He’s  peevish  and  jealous  of  a’  the  young  fellows ; 

O,  dool  on  the  day  I met  wi’  an  auld  man! 

My  auld  auntie  Katie  upon  me  taks  pity ; 

I’ll  do  my  endeavor  to  follow  her  plan : 

I’ll  cross  him,  and  wrack  him,  until  I heart-break  him, 
And  then  his  auld  brass  will  buy  me  a new  pan. 


-4- 


THE  MERCENARY  LOVER. 

Tune  — “ Balincnnona  Ora.” 

Awa  wi’  your  witchcraft  o’  beauty’s  alarms, 

The  slender  bit  beauty  you  grasp  in  your  arms ; 

O gie  me  the  lass  that  has  acres  o’  charms, 

O gie  me  the  lass  wi’  the  weel-stockit  farms. 

CHORUS. 

Then  hey  for  a lass  wi’  a tocher,  then  hey  for  a lass 
wi’  a tocher, 

Then  hey  for  a lass  wi’  a tocher  — the  nice  yellow 
guineas  for  me. 

Your  beauty’s  a flower,  in  the  morning  that  blows, 
And  withers  the  faster,  the  faster  it  grows ; 

But  the  rapturous  charm  o’  the  bonie  green  knowes, 
tlk  spring  they’re  new  deckit  wi’  bonie  white  yowes, 
Then  hey,  &c. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  463 

And  e’en  when  this  beauty  your  bosom  has  blest, 

The  brightest  o’  beauty  may  cloy  when  possest! 

But  the  sweet  yellow  darlings  wi’  Geordie  imprest, 
The  langer  ye  hae  them,  the  mair  they’re  carest, 
Then  hey,  &c. 


MEG  O’  THE  MILL. 

Air  — “ O bonie  lass , will  you  lie  in  a barrack 7 79 

O ken  ye  what  Meg  o’  the  Mill  has  gotten  ? 

An’  ken  ye  what  Meg  o’  the  Mill  has  gotten  ? 
She  has  gotten  a coof  wi’  a claut  o’  siller, 

And  broken  the  heart  o’  the  barley  Miller, 

The  Miller  was  strappan,  the  Miller  w'as  ruddy ! 

A heart  like  a lord,  and  a hue  like  a lady; 

The  laird  was  a widdiefu’  bleerit  knurl ; 

She’s  left  the  guid  fellow,  and  taen  the  churl. 

The  Miller  he  hecht  her  a heart  leal  and  loving; 
The  laird  did  address  her  wi’  matter  mair  moving, 
A fine  pacing  horse,  wi’  a clear  chained  bridle, 

A whip  by  her  side,  and  a bonie  side-saddle. 

O wae  on  the  siller,  it  is  sae  prevailing ; 

And  wae  on  the  love  that  is  fix’d  on  a mailen! 

A tocher’s  nae  wrnrd  in  a true  lover’s  parle, 

But,  gie  me  my  love,  and  a fig  for  the  warl 


4G4  burns’s  poems. 


MY  TOCHER’S  THE  JEWEL. 

O meikle  thinks  my  luve  o’  my  beauty, 

And  meikle  thinks  my  luve  o’  my  kin ; 

But  little  thinks  my  luve  I ken  brawlie, 

My  tocher’s  the  jewel  has  charms  for  him. 

I’s  a’  for  the  apple  he’ll  nourish  the  tree, 

It’s  a’  for  the  hiney  he’ll  cherish  the  bee  ; 

My  laddie’s  sae  meikle  in  luve  wi’  the  siller, 
He  canna  hae  luve  to  spare  for  me. 

Your  proffer  o’  luve’s  an  airl-penny, 

My  tocher’s  the  bargain  ye  wad  buy  ; 

But  an’  ye  be  crafty,  I am  cunnin’, 

Sae  ye  wi’  anither  your  fortune  maun  try. 

Ye’re  like  to  the  timmer  o’  yon  rotten  wood, 
Ye’re  like  to  the  bark  o’  yon  rotten  tree  ; 

Ye’ll  slip  frae  me  like  a knotless  thread, 

And  ye’ll  crack  your  credit  wi’  mae  nor  me. 


-> 


AULD  ROB  MORRIS. 

There’s  auld  Rob  Morris,  that  wons  in  yon  glen, 
He’s  the  king  o’  guid  fellows,  and  wale  of  auld  men; 
He  has  gowd  in  his  coffers,  he  has  owsen  and  kino, 
And  ae  bonie  lassie,  his  darling  and  mine. 


burns’s  POEMS.  465 

She’s  fresh  as  the  morning,  the  fairest  in  May; 

She’s  sweet  as  the  evening  amang  the  new  hay; 

As  blithe  and  as  artless  as  the  lambs  on  the  lea, 

And  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  light  to  my  e’e. 

But  oh ! she’s  an  heiress  — auld  Robin’s  a laird. 

And  my  daddie  has  nought  but  a cot-house  and  yard: 
A wooer  like  me  mauna  hope  to  come  speed, 

The  wounds  I must  hide  that  will  soon  be  my  dead. 

The  day  comes  to  me,  but  delight  brings  me  nane  ; 
The  night  comes  to  me,  but  my  rest  it  is  gane; 

I wander  my  lane  like  a night-troubled  ghaist, 

And  I sigh  as  my  heart  it  wad  burst  in  my  breast. 

0 had  she  but  been  of  lower  degree, 

1 then  might  hae  hop’d  she  wad  smil’d  upon  me; 

0,  how  past  describing  had  then  been  my  bliss, 

As  now  my  distraction  no  words  can  express. 




TO  TIBBIE. 

Tune  — “ Inver  cold's  Reel." 

CHORUS. 

O Tibbie,  I hae  seen  the  day, 
Ye  would  nae  been  sae  shy ; 
For  laik  o’  gear  ye  lightly  me, 
But  trowth  I care  na  by. 


466 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


Yestreen  I met  you  on  the  moor; 

Ye  spak  na,  but  gaed  by  like  stoure; 

Ye  geek  at  me  because  I’m  poor, 

But  fient  a hair  care  I. 

O Tibbie,  &c. 

I doubt  na,  lass,  but  ye  may  think, 
Because  ye  hae  the  name  o’  clink, 

That  ye  can  please  me  at  a wink, 
Whene’er  ye  like  to  try. 

O Tibbie,  &c. 

But  sorrow  tak  him  that’s  sae  mean, 

A 1th o’  his  pouch  o’  coin  were  clean, 

Wha  follows  any  saucy  quean 
That  looks  sae  proud  and  high. 

O Tibbie,  &c. 

Altho’  a lad  were  e’er  sae  smart, 

If  that  he  want  the  yellow  dirt, 

Ye’ll  cast  your  head  anither  airt, 

And  answer  him  fu’  dry. 

O Tibbie,  &c. 

But  if  he  hae  the  name  o’  gear, 

Ye’ll  fasten  to  him  like  a brier, 

Tho’  hardly  he,  for  sense  or  lear, 

Be  better  than  the  kye. 

O Tibbie,  &c. 

But  Tibbie,  lass,  tak  my  advice, 

Your  daddie’s  gear  maks  you  sae  nice, 

The  deil  a one  wad  spier  your  price, 
Were  ye  as  poor  as  I. 

O Tibbie,  &c 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  467 

There  lives  a lass  in  yonder  park, 

I wad  nae  gie  her  in  her  sark, 

For  thee  wi’  a’  thy  thousand  mark: 

Ye  needna  look  sae  high. 

O Tibbie,  &c. 


DUNCAN  GRAY. 

Duncan  Gray  came  here  to  woo, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t, 

On  blithe  yule  night  when  we  were  fu  ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t. 
Maggie  coost  her  head  fu’  high, 
Look’d  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 

Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh : 

Ha,  ha,  the  ’wooing  o’t. 

Duncan  lleech’d  and  Duncan  pray’d ; 
Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  craig: 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Duncan  sigh’d  baith  out  and  in, 

Grat  his  een  baith  bleer’t  and  blin’, 
Spak  o’  louping  o’er  a linn: 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a tide  ; 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide  : 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 


468 


EURNS’s  POEMS. 


Shall  I,  like  a fool,  quoth  he,  * 

For  a haughty  hizzie  die  ? 

She  may  go  — to  France  for  me  ! 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell, 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Meg  grew  sick  — as  he  grew  well, 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Something  in  her  bosom  wrings ; 

For  relief  a sigh  she  brings ; 

And  O,  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things ! 
Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Duncan  was  a lad  o’  grace, 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Maggie’s  was  a piteous  case, 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Duncan  could  na  be  her  death, 
Swelling  pity  smoor’d  his  wrath; 

Now  they’re  crouse  and  cantie  baith ; 
Ha,  ha,  &c. 


THE  BRAW  WOOER. 

Tune  — “ The  Lothian  Lassie .” 

Last  May  a braw  wooer  cam  down  the  lang  glen, 
And  sair  wi’  his  love  he  did  deave  me! 

I said  there  was  naething  I hated  like  men; 

The  deuce  gae  wi’m  to  believe  me,  believe  me, 
The  deuce  gae  wi’m,  to  believe  me. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  469 

He  spak  o’  the  darts  in  my  bonie  black  een, 

And  vow’d  for  my  love  be  was  dying ; 

I said  he  might  die  when  he  liked,  for  Jean; 

The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying,  for  lying, 

The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying. 

A well-stocked  mailen,  himsel’  for  the  laird, 

And  marriage  aff-hand,  were  his  proffers; 

I never  loot  on  that  I kenn’d  it,  or  car’d, 

But  thought  I might  hae  waur  offers,  waur  offers, 
But  thought  I might  hae  waur  offers. 

But  what  wad  ye  think?  in  a fortnight  or  less, 

The  deil  tak  his  taste  to  gae  near  her! 

He  up  the  lang  loan,  to  my  black  cousin  Bess, 

Guess  ye  how,  the  jad ! I could  bear  her,  could  bear 
her, 

Guess  ye  how,  the  jad!  I could  bear  her. 

But  a’  the  niest  week,  as  I fretted  wi’  care, 

I gaed  to  the  tryste  o’  Dalgarnock  ; 

And  wha  but  my  fine,  fickle  lover  was  there ! 

I glowr’d  as  I’d  seen  a warlock,  a warlock, 

I glowr’d  as  I’d  seen  a warlock. 

But  owre  my  left  shouther  I gaed  him  a blink, 

Lest  neebors  might  say  I was  saucy; 

My  wooer  he  caper’d  as  he’d  been  in  drink, 

And  vow’d  I was  his  dear  lassie,  dear  lassie, 

And  vow’d  I was  his  dear  lassie. 

I spier’d  for  my  cousin,  fu’  couthie  and  sweet, 

Gin  she  had  recover’d  her  bearin’, 

And  how  her  new  shoon  fit  her  auld  shackl’t  feet? 

40 


470 


BURNS7S  POEMS. 


But,  heavens ! how  he  fell  a-swearin’,  a-s wearing 
But,  heavens ! how  he  fell  a-swearin’. 

He  begg’d,  for  Gude-sake ! I wad  be  his  wife, 

Or  else  I wad  kill  him  wi’  sorrow: 

So,  e’en  to  preserve  the  poor  body  in  life, 

I think  I maun  wed  him  to-morrow,  to-morrow, 

I think  I maun  wed  him  to-morrow. 


WILLIE’S  WIFE. 

Willie  Wastle  dwalt  on  Tweed, 

The  spot  they  ca’d  it  Linkumdoddie ; 

Willie  was  a wabster  guid, 

Cou’d  stown  a clue  wi’  onie  bodie: 

He  had  a wife  was  dour  and  din, 

O Tinkler  Madgie  was  her  mother. 

CHORUS. 

Sic  a wife  as  Willie  had ! 

I wad  na  gie  a button  for  her. 

She  has  an  e’e  — she  has  but  ane, 

The  cat  has  twa  the  very  color; 

Five  rusty  teeth,  forbye  a stump, 

A clapper-tongue  wad  deave  a miller; 

A whiskin’  beard  about  her  mou, 

Her  nose  and  chin  they  threaten  ither. 

Sic  a wife,  &c. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  471 

She’s  bough-hough’d,  she’s  hein-shinn’d, 

Ae  limpin’  leg,  a hand-breed  shorter; 

She’s  twisted  right,  she’s  twisted  left, 

To  balance  fair  in  ilka  quarter: 

She  has  a hump  upon  her  breast, 

The  twin  o’  that  upon  her  shouther. 

Sic  a wife,  &c. 

Auld  baudron  by  the  ingle  sits, 

And  wi’  her  loof  her  face  a-washin’; 

But  Willie’s  wife  is  nae  sae  trig, 

She  dights  her  grunzie  wi’  a hushion ; 

Her  walie  nieves,  like  midden-creels, 

Her  face  wad  fyle  the  Logan-water. 

Sic  a wife,  &c. 


-*■ 


A PECK  O’  MAUT. 

O Willie  brew’d  a peck  o’  maut, 

And  Rob  and  Allen  cam  to  see; 
Three  blither  hearts,  that  lee-lang  night, 
Ye  wad  na  find  in  Christendie. 

CHORUS. 

We  are  na  fou,  we’re  na  that  fou, 

But  just  a drappie  in  our  e’e ; 

The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw, 
And  ay  we’ll  taste  the  barley  bree 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys, 
Three  merry  boys,  I trow,  are  we; 


472 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


And  monie  a night  we’ve  merry  been, 
And  monie  mae  we  hope  to  be ! 

We  are,  &c. 

It  is  the  moon,  I ken  her  horn, 

That’s  blinkin’  in  the  lift  sae  hie; 
She  shines  sae  bright  to  wyle  us  hame, 
But,  by  my  sooth,  she’ll  wait  a wee 1 
We  are,  &c, 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa, 

A cuckold,  coward  loun  is  he ! 

Wha  last  beside  the  chair  shall  fa’, 

He  is  the  king  amang  us  three 

We  are,  &c. 


THE  LA  WIN. 

Gane  is  the  day  and  mirk’s  the  night, 

But  we’ll  ne’er  stray  for  foute  o’  light; 

For  ale  and  brandy’s  stars  and  moon, 

And  bluid-red  wine’s  the  rising  sun. 

CHORUS. 

Then,  guidwife,  count  the  lawin,  the  lawin,  the 
lawin ; 

Then,  guidwife,  count  the  lawin,  and  bring  a coggie 
mair. 

There’s  wealth  and  ease  for  gentlemen, 

And  semple  folk  maun  fecht  and  fen’; 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  473 

But  here  we’re  a’  in  ae  accord, 

For  ilka  man  that’s  drunk’s  a lord. 

Then,  guidwife,  &c. 

My  coggie  is  a haly  pool, 

That  heals  the  wounds  o’  care  and  dool; 

And  pleasure  is  a wanton  trout, 

An’  ye  drink  it  a’  ye’ll  find  him  out. 

Then,  guidwife,  &c. 


HONEST  POVERTY. 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a’  that? 

The  coward  slave  we  pass  him  by, 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a’  that! 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Our  toil’s  obscure,  and  a’  that, 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea’s  stamp, 

The  man’s  the  gowd  for  a’  that. 

What  tho’  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a’  that? 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A man’s  a man  for  a’  that; 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Their  tinsel  show  and  a’  that: 

The  honest  man,  tho’  e’er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o’  men  for  a’  that. 

40* 


474  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca’d  a lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a’  that; 
Tho’  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He’s  but  a coof  for  a’  that: 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

His  ribbon,  star,  and  a’  that, 

The  man  of  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a’  that. 

A prince  can  mak  a belted  knight, 

A marquis,  duke,  and  a’  that; 

But  an  honest  man’s  aboon  his  might; 

Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa’  that! 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Their  dignities  and  a’  that, 

The  pith  o’  sense  and  pride  o’  worth, 
Are  higher  ranks  than  a’  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a’  that, 

That  sense  and  worth,  o’er  a’  the  earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a’  that ; 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Its  coming  yet,  for  a’  that, 

That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o’er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a’  that. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  475 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SHERIFF-MUIR, 

BETWEEN  THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLE  AND  THE  EARL 
OF  MAR. 

“ O cam  ye  here  the  fight  to  shun, 

Or  herd  the  sheep  wi’  me,  man? 

Or  were  ye  at  the  Sherra-muir, 

And  did  the  battle  see,  man?” 

I saw  the  battle  sair  and  tough, 

And  reeking  red  ran  many  a sheugh ; 

My  heart,  for  fear,  gaed  sough  for  sough, 

To  hear  the  thuds,  and  see  the  cluds, 

O’  clans  frae  woods  in  tartan  duds, 

Wha  glaum’d  at  kingdoms  three,  man. 

The  red-coat  lads,  wi’  black  cockades, 

To  meet  them  were  na  slaw,  man ; 

They  rush’d,  and  push’d,  and  bluid  outgus’h’d, 

And  monie  a bouk  did  fa’  man; 

The  great  Argyle  led  on  his  files, 

I wat  they  glanced  twenty  miles ; 

They  hack’d  and  hash’d,  while  broadswords  clash’d^ 
And  thro’  they  dash’d,  and  hew’d  and  smash’d, 

Till  fey  men  died  awa,  man. 

But  had  you  seen  the  Phillibegs, 

And  skyrin  tartan  trews,  man, 

When  in  the  teeth  they  dar’d  our  whigs, 

And  covenant  true  blues,  man ; 

In  lines  extended  lang  and  large, 

When  bayonets  oppos’d  the  targe, 


476  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

And  thousands  hasten’d  to  the  charge, 

Wi’  Highland  wrath,  they  frae  the  sheath 
Drew  blades  o’  death,  till  out  o’  breath, 
They  fled  like  frighted  doos,  man. 

“ O how,  deil,  Tam,  can  that  be  true  ? 

The  chase  gaed  frae  the  north,  man; 

I saw,  myself,  they  did  pursue 

The  horsemen  back  to  Forth,  man: 

And  at  Dumblane,  in  my  ain  sight, 

They  took  the  brig  wi’  a’  their  might, 

And  straught  to  Stirling  wing’d  their  flight; 
But,  cursed  lot!  the  gates  were  shut, 

And  monie  a huntit  poor  red-coat, 

For  fear  amaist  did  swarf,  man.” 

My  sister  Kate  cam  up  the  gate, 

Wi’  crowdie  unto  me,  man; 

She  swore  she  saw  some  rebels  run 
Frae  Perth  unto  Dundee,  man: 

Their  left-hand  gen’ral  had  nae  skill, 

The  Angus  lads  had  nae  good  will 
That  day  their  neebors’  bluid  to  spill ; 

For  fear  by  foes  that  they  should  lose 
Their  cogs  o’  brose:  all  crying  woes, 

And  so  it  goes,  you  see,  man. 

They’ve  lost  some  gallant  gentlemen, 

Amang  the  Highland  clans,  man; 

I fear  my  Lord  Panmure  is  slain, 

Or  fall’n  in  whiggish  hands,  man: 

Now  wad  ye  sing  this  double  fight, 

Some  fell  for  wrang,  and  some  for  right; 
But  monie  bade  the  world  guid-night ; 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  477 

Then  ye  may  tell,  how  pell  and  mell, 

By  red  claymores,  and  muskets’  knell, 

Wi’  dying  yell,  the  tories  fell, 

And  whigs  to  hell  did  flee,  man. 


CONTENTMENT. 

Tune  — “ Lumps  o’  Pudding .” 

Contented  wi’  little,  and  cantie  wi’  mair, 

Whene’er  I forgather  wi’  sorrow  and  care, 

I gie  them  a skelp,  as  they’re  creeping  alang, 

Wi’  a cog  o’  guid  swats,  and  an  auld  Scottish  sang 

I whyles  claw  the  elbow  o’  troublesome  thought; 

But  man  is  a sodger,  and  life  is  a faught: 

My  mirth  and  guid  humor  are  coin  in  my  pouch, 

And  my  freedom’s  my  lairdship  nae  monarch  dare  touch. 

A towmond  o’  trouble,  should  that  be  my  fa’, 

A night  o’  good  fellowship  sowthers  it  a’: 

When  at  the  blithe  end  o’  our  journey  at  last, 

Wha  the  devil  ever  thinks  o’  the  road  he  has  past? 

Blind  chance,  let  her  snapper  stoyte  on  her  way, 

Be’t  to  me,  be’t  frae  me,  e’en  let  the  jade  gae : 

Come  ease,  or  come  travail;  come  pleasure  or  pain; 
My  warst  ward  is — “ Welcome,  and  welcome  again!” 


478  BURNS’S  POEMS. 


THE  DUMFRIES  VOLUNTEERS. 

APRIL,  1795. 

Tune  — “ Push  about  the  Jorum” 

Does  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat? 
Then  let  the  louns  beware,  sir; 

There’s  wooden  walls  upon  our  seas, 
And  volunteers  on  shore,  sir. 

The  Nith  shall  run  to  Corsincon,* 

And  CrifFelf  sink  in  Solway, 

Ere  we  permit  a foreign  foe 
On  British  ground  to  rally! 

Fall  de  rail,  &c. 

O let  us  not,  like  snarling  tykes, 

In  wrangling  be  divided ; 

Till,  slap!  come  in  an  unco  loun, 

And  wi’  a rung  decide  it. 

Be  Britain  still  to  Britain  true, 

Amang  oursels  united; 

For  never,  but  by  British  hands, 

Maun  British  wrangs  be  righted. 

Fall  de  rail,  &c. 

The  kettle  o’  the  kirk  and  state, 
Perhaps  a claut  may  fail  in’t; 


* A high  hill  at  the  source  of  the  Nith. 
t A well-known  mountain  at  the  mouth  of  the  Solway.. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  479 

But  deil  a foreign  tinkler  loun 
Shall  ever  ca’  a nail  in’t. 

Our  fathers’  bluid  the  kettle  bought, 

And  wha  wad  dare  to  spoil  it? 

By  lieav’n!  the  sacreligious  dog 
Shall  fuel  be  to  boil  it! 

Fall  de  rail,  &c. 

The  wretch  that  wad  a tyrant  own, 

And  the  wretch,  his  true-born  brother, 

Who  would  set  the  mob  aboon  the  throne , 

May  they  be  d — n’d  together! 

Who  will  not  sing,  “God  save  the  King,” 
Shall  hang  as  high’s  the  steeple : 

But  while  we  sing,  “ God  save  the  King,” 
We’ll  ne’er  forget  the  People. 

Fall  de  rail,  &c. 


CALEDONIA. 

Tune  — “ Humours  of  GZe?i.” 

Their  groves  o’  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands  reckon, 
Where  bright-beaming  summers  exalt  the  perfume; 
Far  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o’  green  breckan, 
Wi’  the  burn  stealings  under  the  lang  yellow  broom. 

Far  dearer  to  me  are  yon  humble  broom  bowers, 
Where  the  blue-bell  and  gowan  lurk  lowly  unseen; 
For  there,  lightly  tripping  amang  the  wild  flowers, 
A-listening  the  linnet,  aft  wanders  my  Jean. 


480  BUXINS’s  POEMS. 

Tho’  rich  is  the  breeze  in  their  gay  sunny  valleys, 
And  cauld  Caledonia’s  blast  on  the  wave : 

Their  sweet-scented  woodlands  that  skirt  the  proud 
palace  — 

What  are  they?  — The  haunt  of  the  tyrant  and 
slave. 

The  slave’s  spicy  forests,  and  gold-bubbling  fountains, 
The  brave  Caledonian  views  with  disdain : 

He  wanders  as  free  as  the  winds  of  his  mountains, 
Save  love’s  willing  fetters,  the  chains  o’  his  Jean. 


-$»■ 


COMIN’  THROUGH  THE  RYE. 

Tune  — “ Gin  a Body  meet  a Body  ” 

Gin  a body  meet  a body, 

Cornin’  thro’  the  rye ; 

Gin  a body  kiss  a body, 

Need  a body  cry? 

Ev’ry  lassie  has  her  laddie, 

Nane,  they  say,  hae  I! 

Yet  a’  the  lads  they  smile  at  me, 
When  cornin’  thro’  the  rye. 
Amang  the  train  there  is  a swain 
I dearly  lo’e  mysel’; 

But  whaur  his  hame,  or  what  his  name, 
I dinna  care  to  tell. 

Gin  a body  meet  a body, 

Cornin’  frae  the  town* 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  481 

Gin  a body  greet  a body, 

Need  a body  frown  ? 

Ev’ry  lassie  has  her  laddie, 

Nane,  they  say,  hae  I ! 

Yet  a’  the  lads  they  smile  at  me, 

When  cornin’  thro’  the  rye. 

Amang  the  train  there  is  a swain 
I dearly  lo’e  mysel’ ; 

Bat  whaur  his  hame,  or  what  his  name, 

I dinna  care  to  tell. 


THE  WHISTLE. 

A BALLAD. 

As  the  authentic  prose  history  of  “ The  Whistle  ” is  curious,  I shall 
here  give  it. 

In  the  train  of  Anne  of  Denmark,  when  she  came  to  Scotland  with 
our  James  VI.,  there  came  over  also  a Danish  gentleman  of  gigantic 
stature  and  great  prowess,  and  a matchless  champion  of  Bacchus.  He 
had  a little  ebony  Whistle,  which,  at  the  commencement  of  the  orgies, 
he  laid  on  the  table ; and  whoever  was  last  able  to  blow  it,  every  body 
else  being  disabled  by  the  potency  of  the  bottle,  was  to  carry  off  the 
Whistle  as  a trophy  of  victory.  The  Dane  produced  credentials  of  his 
victories,  without  a single  defeat,  at  the  courts  of  Copenhagen,  Stock- 
fa  jlm,  Moscow,  Warsaw,  and  several  of  the  petty  courts  in  Cermary ; 
and  challenged  the  Scots  Bacchanalians  to  the  alternative  of  trying  his 
prowess,  or  else  of  acknowledging  their  inferiority. 

After  many  overthrows  on  the  part  of  the  Scots,  the  Dane  was  en- 
countered by  Sir  Robert  Lawrie,  of  Maxwelton,  ancestor  of  the  present 
worthy  baronet  of  that  name ; who,  after  three  days,  and  three  nights' 
hard  contest,  left  the  Scandinavian  under  the  table, 

“And  blew  on  the  Whistle  his  requiem  shrill.” 

Sir  Walter,  son  to  Sir  Robert  before-mentioned,  afterwards  lost  th« 

41 


482  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

Whistle  to  Walter  Riddel,  of  Glenriddel,  wlio  had  married  a sister  of 
Sir  Waller’s. 

On  Friday,  the  16th  of  October,  1790,  at  Friars-Carse,  the  Whistle 
was  once  more  contended  for,  as  related  in  the  ballad,  by  the  present  Sir 
Robert  Lawrie,  of  Maxwelton;  Robert  Riddel,  Esq , of  Glenriddel,  lin- 
eal descendant  and  representative  of  Walter  Riddel,  who  won  the 
Whistle,  and  in  whose  family  it  had  continued;  and  Alexander  Fer- 
guson, Esq.,  of  Craigdarroch,  likewise  descended  of  the  great  Sir  Rob- 
ert ; which  last  gentleman  carried  off  the  hard-won  honors  of  the  field. 

I sing  of  a Whistle,  a Whistle  of  worth, 

I sing  of  a Whistle,  the  pride  of  the  North, 

Was  brought  to  the  court  of  our  good  Scottish  king, 
And  long  with  this  Whistle  all  Scotland  shall  ring. 

Old  Loda  # still  rueing  the  arm  of  Fingal, 

The  god  of  the  bottle  sends  down  from  his  hall  — 
“This  Whistle’s  your  challenge,  to  Scotland  get  o’er, 
And  drink  them  to  hell,  sir ! or  ne’er  see  me  more ! ” 

Old  poets  have  sung,  and  old  chronicles  tell, 

What  champions  ventur’d,  what  champions  fell; 

The  son  of  great  Loda  was  conqueror  still, 

And  blew  on  the  Whistle  his  requiem  shrill. 

Till  Robert,  the  Lord  of  the  Cairn  and  the  Scaur, 
Unmatch’d  at  the  bottle,  unconquer’d  in  war, 

He  drank  his  poor  godship  as  deep  as  the  sea, 

No  tide  of  the  Baltic  e’er  drunker  than  he. 

Thus  Robert,  victorious,  the  trophy  has  gain’d, 

Which  now  in  his  house  has  for  ages  remain’d; 

Till  three  noble  chieftains,  and  all  of  his  blood, 

The  jovial  contest  again  have  renew’d. 


* See  Ossian’s  Caric-tlmra. 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  483 

Three  joyous  good  fellows,  with  hearts  clear  of  flaw, 
Craigdarroch,  so  famous  for  wit,  worth,  and  law ; 

And  trusty  Glenriddel,  so  skill’d  in  old  coins ; 

And  gallant  Sir  Robert,  deep-read  in  old  wines. 

Craigdarroch  began,  with  a tongue  smooth  as  oil, 

Desiring  Glenriddel  to  yield  up  the  spoil ; 

Or  else  he  would  muster  the  heads  of  the  clan, 

And  once  more,  in  claret,  try  which  was  the  man. 

“By  the  gods  of  the  ancients!”  Glenriddel  replies, 

“Before  I surrender  so  glorious  a prize 

I’ll  conjure  the  ghost  of  the  great  Rorie  More,* 

And  bumper  his  horn  with  him  twenty  times  o’er.” 

Sir  Robert,  a soldier,  no  speech  would  pretend, 

But  he  ne’er  turn’d  his  back  on  his  foe  or  his  friend, 

Said,  Toss  down  the  Whistle,  the  prize  of  the  field, 

And,  knee-deep  in  claret,  he’d  die,  or  he’d  yield. 

To  the  board  of  Glenriddel  our  heroes  repair, 

So  noted  for  drowning  of  sorrow  and  care  ; 

But  for  wine  and  for  welcome  not  more  known  to  fame, 

Than  the  sense,  wit,  and  taste,  of  a sweet,  lovely  dame. 

A bard  was  selected  to  witness  the  fray,  / 

And  tell  future  ages  the  feats  of  the  day; 

A Bard  who  detested  all  sadness  and  spleen, 

And  wish’d  that  Parnassus  a vineyard  had  been. 

The  dinner  being  over,  the  claret  they  ply, 

And  ev’ry  new  cork  is  a new  spring  of  joy ; 


* See  Johnson’s  Tour  to  the  Hebrides. 


484 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


In  the  bands  of  old  friendship  and  kindred  so  set, 
And  the  bands  grew  the  tighter  the  more  they  were  wet. 

Gay  pleasure  ran  riot  as  bumpers  ran  o’er; 

Bright  Phoebus  ne’er  witness’d  so  joyous  a core, 

And  vow’d  that  to  leave  them  he  was  quite  forlorn, 
Till  Cynthia  hinted  he’d  see  them  next  morn. 

Six  bottles  apiece  had  well  wore  out  the  night, 

When  gallant  Sir  Robert,  to  finish  the  fight, 

Turn’d  o’er  in  one  bumper  a bottle  of  red, 

And  swore  ’twas  the  way  that  their  ancestors  did. 

Then  worthy  Glenriddel,  so  cautious  and  sage, 

No  longer  the  warfare,  ungodly,  would  wage ; 

A high  ruling  Elder,  to  wallow  in  wine! 

He  left  the  foul  business  to  folks  less  divine. 

The  gallant  Sir  Robert  fought  hard  to  the  end; 

But  who  can  with  fate  and  quart-bumpers  contend? 
Tho’  fate  said  — a hero  should  perish  in  light; 

So  up  rose  bright  Phoebus  — and  down  fell  the  knight* 

Next  up  rose  our  Bard,  like  a prophet  in  drink:  — 

“ Craigdarroch,  thou’lt  soar  when  creation  shall  sink ; 
But  if  thou  would  flourish  immortal  in  rhyme, 

Come  — one  bottle  more  — and  have  at  the  sublime! 

“ Thy  line,  that  have  struggled  for  freedom  with  Bruce, 
Shall  heroes  and  patriots  ever  produce: 

So  thine  be  the  laurel,  and  mine  be  the  bay; 

The  field  thou  hast  won,  by  yon  bright  god  of  day,,r 


BURNS’S  POEMS.  485 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN.* 

A BALLAD. 

There  went  three  kings  into  the  east, 

Three  kings  both  great  ancl  high, 

An’  they  hae  sworn  a solemn  oath, 

John  Barleycorn  should  die. 

They  took  a plough  and  plough’d  him  down, 
Put  clods  upon  his  head, 

And  they  hae  sworn  a solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

But  the  cheerful  spring  came  kindly  on, 

And  showers  began  to  fall ; 

John  Barleycorn  got  up  again, 

And  sore  surprised  them  all. 

The  sultry  suns  of  summer  came, 

And  he  grew  thick  and  strong, 

His  head  weel  arm’d  wi’  pointed  spears, 

That  no  one  should  him  wrong. 

The  sober  autumn  enter’d  mild, 

When  he  grew  wan  and  pale, 

His  bending  joints  and  drooping  head 
Show’d  he  began  to  fail. 


* This  is  partly  composed  on  the  plan  of  an  old  song  known  by  th« 
i&me  name. 

41* 


486  BURNS’S  POEMS. 

His  color  sicken’d  more  and  more, 

He  faded  into  age ; 

And  then  his  enemies  began 
To  show  their  deadly  rage. 

They’ve  ta’en  a weapon  long  and  sharp. 
And  cut  him  by  the  knee: 

Then  tied  him  fast  upon  a cart, 

Like  a rogue  for  forgerie. 

They  laid  him  down  upon  his  back, 

And  cudgelled  him  full  sore; 

They  hung  him  up  before  the  storm, 

And  turn’d  him  o’er  and  o’er. 

They  filled  up  a darksome  pit 
With  water  to  the  brim ; 

They  heaved  in  John  Barleycorn, 

There  let  him  sink  or  swim. 

They  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor, 

To  work  him  farther  wo  ; 

And  still  as  signs  of  life  appeared, 

They  toss’d  him  to  and  fro. 

They  wasted  o’er  a scorching  flame 
The  marrow  of  his  bones ; 

But  a miller  used  him  worst  of  all, 

For  he  crush’d  him  between  two  stones. 

And  they  hae  taen  his  very  heart’s  blood, 
And  drank  it  round  and  round; 

And  still  the  more  and  more  they  drank, 
Their  joy  did  more  abound. 


BURNS’S  POEMS. 


487 


John  Barleycorn  was  a hero  bold, 

Of  noble  enterprise  ; 

For,  if  you  do  but  taste  his  blood, 
’Twill  make  your  courage  rise. 

’Twill  make  a man  forget  his  wo ; 

’Twill  heighten  all  his  joy ; 

’Twill  make  the  widow’s  heart  to  sing, 
Tho’  the  tear  were  in  her  eye. 

Then  let  us  toast  John  Barleycorn, 
Each  man  a glass  in  hand ; 

And  may  his  great  posterity 
Ne’er  fail  in  auld  Scotland! 


GLOSSARY. 

The  ch  and  gh  have  always  the  guttural  sound.  The 

Bound  of  the  English  diphthong  oo,  is  commonly  spelled  ou. 

The  French  u,  a sound  which  often  occurs  in  the  Scottish 

language,  is  marked  oo,  or  ui. 

The  a in  genuine  Scottish 

words,  except  when  forming 

a diphthong,  or  followed  by 

an  e mute,  after  a single  consonant,  sounds  generally  like 

the  broad  English  a in  wall . 

The  Scottish  diphthongs,  ce, 

always,  and  ea , very  often,  sound  like  the  French  e mascu- 

line. The  Scottish  diphthong  ey  sounds  like  the  Latin  eu 

A. 

Aften,  often,  frequently,  ma- 
ny times. 

A’,  all,  every  one,  the  whole. 

Agley,  off  the  right  line,  ob- 

Aback, away,  aloof. 

lique,  wrong. 

Abeigh,  at  a shy  distance. 

Aiblins,  perhaps. 

Aboon,  above,  up,  in  the  re- 

Aik, the  oak. 

gions  of  heaven. 

Air,  early,  soon. 

Abread,  abroad,  in  sight,  at 

Airl-penny,  earnest-money  a 

large. 

piece  of  money  for  con- 

Abreed, in  breadth. 

firming  a bargain. 

Ae,  one. 

Airt,  quarter  of  the  heavens 

Aff,  off. 

to  direct. 

Aff-hand,  extempore,  imme- 

Airn, iron. 

diately. 

Aith,  an  oath. 

Aff-loof,  unpremeditated. 

Aits,  oats. 

Afore;  before,  sooner  than. 

Aiver,  an  old  horse. 

Aft,  oft. 

Aizle,  a hot  cinder. 

GLOSSARY. 


492 


Alakc,  alas  ! 

Alane,  alone,  solitary,  single, 
without  company. 

Akwart,  awkward,  inelegant, 
untaught. 

Amaist,  almost,  nearly. 

Amang,  among,  mingled 

An’,  and,  if.  [with. 

Ance,  once,  one  time. 

Ane,  one ; and. 

Anent,  over  against,  con- 
cerning. 

Anither,  another,  one  more. 

Ase,  ashes,  the  remains  of 
burnt  coals. 

Asklent,  asquint,  aslant. 

Asteer,  abroad,  stirring. 

Athart,  athwart,  wrong. 

Aught,  possession;  as,  in  a’ 
my  aught,  in  all  my  pos- 
session. 

Auldfarren,  or  Auldfarrent, 
sagacious,  cunning,  pru- 
dent. 

Auld  lang  syne,  olden  time, 
days  of  other  years. 

Auld,  old,  ancient,  advanced 
in  years. 

Auntie,  an  aunt. 

Ava’,  at  all,  of  all,  of  any. 

Awa’,  away,  absent. 

Awfu’,  awful,  terrible. 

Awn,  the  beard  of  barley, 
oats,  &c. 

Awnie,  bearded. 

Ayont,  beyond,  at  a distance, 
out  of  the  reach  of. 


B. 

Ba’,  ball. 

Backets,  ashboards,  a square 
wooden  vessel  for  carrying 
coals  to  the  fire,  a kind  of 
box  for  holding  salt. 

Backlins  cornin',  coming 
back,  returning. 

Bad,  did  bid. 

Baide,  endured,  did  stay. 

Bailie,  a magistrate  in  Scot- 
land, answering  to  an  al- 
derman in  England. 

Baggie,  dimin.  of  bag,  a fa- 
miliar term  used  to  signify 
the  belly. 

Bainie,  having  large  bones, 
stout. 

Bairn,  a child. 

Bairntime,  a family  of  chil- 
dren, a brood. 

Baith,  both ; likewise. 

Bake,  a small  cake  or  biscuit. 

Ban,  to  swear,  to  make  an  ir- 
reverent exclamation;  re- 
proach, censure. 

Bane,  bone. 

Bang,  to  beat,  to  strive,  to 
excel. 

Bardie,  dimin.  of  bard. 

Barefit,  barefooted,  without 
shoes  or  stockings. 

Barmie,  of,  or  like  barm. 

Batch,  a crew,  a gang. 

Batts,  botts,  small  worms  in 
the  entrails  of  horses. 


GLOSSARY. 


493 


Baudrons,  a cat. 

Bauld,  bold,  intrepid. 

Bawk,  a strip  of  land  left 
unploughed,  two  or  three 
feet  in  width ; a ridge,  a 
bank. 

Bawrs’nt,  having  a white 
stripe  dovTL  the  face. 

Be,  to  let  be,  to  give  over,  to 
cease. 

Bear,  barley. 

Beastie,  dimin.  of  beast. 

Beet,  to  add  fuel  to  fire. 

Beld,  bald,  without  hair  on 
the  head. 

Belyve,  by-and-by. 

Ben,  into  the  spence  or  par- 
lor. 

Benmost,  innermost. 

Benlomond,  a noted  moun- 
tain in  Dumbartonshire. 

Bethankit,  grace  or  short 
prayer  after  the  time  or 
act  of  eating. 

Beuk,  a book. 

Bicker,  a kind  of  wooden 
dish,  a short  race. 

Bic,  or  Bield,  shelter. 

Bien,  wealthy,  plentiful. 

Big,  to  build. 

Biggin,  building  ; a house. 

Biggit,  built. 

Bill,  a bull. 

Billie,  a brother,  a young  fel- 
lowr. 

Bing,  a heap  of  grain,  pota- 
toes, &c. 


Birk,  birch. 

Birken-shaw,  Birchen-wrood« 
shaw,  a small  wood. 

Birkie,  a clever  fellow. 

Birring,  the  noise  of  par- 
tridges, &c.,  when  they 
spring. 

Bit,  crisis,  nick  of  time. 

Bizz,  a bustle  ; to  buzz. 

Blae,  livid. 

Blastie,  a shrivelled  dwarf,  a 
term  of  contempt. 

Blastit,  blasted. 

Blate,  bashful,  sheepish. 

Blather,  bladder. 

Blaud,  a flat  piece  of  any 
thing ; to  slap. 

Blaw,  to  blow,  to  boast. 

Bleerit,  bleared,  sore  with 
rheum. 

Bleert  and  blin,,  bleared  and 
blind. 

Bleezing,  blazing,  flaming. 

Blellum,  an  idle,  talking  fel- 
low. 

Blether,  to  talk  idly ; non- 
sense. 

Bleth’rin,  talking  idly. 

Blink,  a little  white,  a smil- 
ing look ; to  look  kindly, 
to  shine  by  fits. 

Blinker,  a term  of  contempt. 

Blinkin,  smirking,  ogling. 

Blithe,  or  Blythe,  cheerful. 

Blue-gown,  one  of  those  beg- 
gars wrho  get  annually,  on 
the  king’s  birth-day,  a 


42 


494  GLOSSARY. 

blue  cloak  or  gown,  with. 

Braid,  broad,  plain. 

a badge. 

Bragin' t,  reeled  forward. 

Bluid,  blood. 

Braik,  a kind  of  harrow,  an 

Bluntie,  snivelling. 

instrument  used  in  hus- 

Blype, a shred,  a large  piece. 

bandry. 

Bock,  to  vomit,  to  gush  in- 

Brainge,  to  run  rashly  for- 

termittently. 

ward. 

Bocked,  gushed,  vomited. 

Brak,  broke,  made  insolvent. 

Bo  die,  an  old  copper  coin,  of 

Branks,  a kind  of  wooden 

the  value  of  pennies  Scots, 

curb  for  horses. 

or  one-third  of  an  Eng- 

Brash,  a sudden  illness. 

lish  penny. 

Brats,  coarse  clothes,  rags, 

Bogles,  spirits,  hobgoblins. 

&c. 

Bonie,  or  Bony,  handsome, 

Brattle,  a short  race,  hurry, 

beautiful. 

fury. 

Bonnock,  a kind  of  thick 

Braw,  fine,  handsome. 

cake  of  bread,  a small  jan- 

Brawlyt,  or  Brawlie,  very 

nack  or  loaf  made  of  oat- 

well, finely,  heartily. 

meal. 

Braxie,  a morbid  sheep. 

Boord,  a board. 

Breastie,  dimin.  of  breast. 

Boortree,  the  shrub  elder, 

Breastit,  did  spring  up  or 

planted  much  of  old  in 

forward. 

hedges  of  barn-yards,  &c. 

Breckan,  fern. 

Boost,  behooved,  must  needs. 

Breef,  an  invulnerable  or  ir- 

Bore, a hole  in  the  wall. 

resistible  spell. 

Botch,  blotch,  an  angry  tu- 

Breeks, breeches. 

mor. 

Brent,  smooth. 

Bouk,  body,  a person. 

Brewin,  brewing. 

Bousing,  drinking,  quaffing. 

Brie,  juice,  liquid. 

Bow-kail,  cabbage. 

Brig,  a bridge. 

Bcw-hough’d,  applied  to  the 

Brunstane,  brimstone. 

lower  part  of  the  thighs, 

Brisket,  the  breast,  the  bo 

when  crooked  or  bent  out- 

som. 

wards. 

Britlier,  a brother. 

Brackens,  fern. 

Brock,  a badger. 

# Brae,  a declivity,  a precipice, 

Brogue,  a hum,  a trick. 

the  slope  of  a hill. 

, Broo,  broth,  liquid,  water. 

GLOSSARY. 


495 


Brosc,  a kind  of  pottage, 
made  by  pouring  boiling 
water  or  broth  on  oat-meal, 
which  is  stirred  while  the 
water  is  poured ; a race  at 
country  weddings,  who 
shall  first  reach  the  bride- 
groom’s house,  on  return- 
ing from  church,  so  called, 
perhaps,  from  brose  being 
allotted  to  the  victor. 

Brownie,  a spirit,  supposed, 
till  lately,  to  haunt  old 
houses,  particularly  those 
attached  to  farms,  and 
sometimes  to  do  the  drudg- 
ery of  the  servants  during 
the  night. 

Brugh,  a burgh.  ) 

Bruilzie,  a broil,  a combus- 
tion. 

Brunt,  did  burn,  burnt. 

Brust,  to  burst,  burst. 

Buchan-bullers,  the  boiling 
of  the  sea  among  the  rocks 
on  the  coast  of  Buchan. 

Bucksin,  an  inhabitant  of 
Virginia. 

Bught,  a pen. 

Bughtin-time,  the  time  of 
collecting  the  sheep  in  the 
pens  to  be  milked. 

Buirdly,  stout  made,  broad 
made. 

Bum- clock,  a humming  bee- 
tle that  flies  in  the  sum- 
mer evenings. 


Bumming,  humming,  as 
bees. 

Bummle,  to  blunder ; a dolt, 
a stupid  person. 

Bummler,  a blunderer. 

Bunker,  a window-seat. 

Burdies,  dimin.  of  birds. 

Bure,  did  bear. 

Bum,  water,  a rivulet. 

Burnie,  dimin.  of  burn. 

Buskie,  bushy. 

Buskit,  dressed  finely,  deco- 
rated. 

Busks,  dresses. 

Busle,  a bustle ; to  bustle. 

Buss,  shelter. 

But,  Bot,  with,  without. 

But  an’  ben,  the  country 
kitchen  and  parlor. 

By  himsel’,  lunatic,  distract- 
ed. 

Byke,  a bee-hive,  a crowd. 

Byre,  a cow-house. 

C. 

Ca’,  to  call,  to  name,  to 
drive. 

Ca’t,  or  Ca’d,  called,  driven, 
calved. 

Cadger,  a carrier. 

Cadie,  or  Caddie,  a person, 
a young  fellow. 

Caff,  chaff. 

Caird,  a tinker. 

Cairn,  a loose  heap  of 
stones. 


496 


GLOSSARY. 


Calf- ward,  a small  enclosure 
for  calves. 

Callan,  a boy. 

Caller,  fresh,  sound,  refresh- 
ing. 

Canic,  or  Cannie,  gentle, 
mild,  dexterous. 

Cannilie,  dexterously,  gen- 
tly. 

Cantie,  or  Canty,  cheerful, 
merry. 

Cantrip,  a charm,  a spell. 

Caprin,  capering,  skipping 
merrily. 

Cap-stane,  cope-stone,  key- 
stone. 

Careerin,  cheerfully. 

Carl,  an  old  man. 

Carl-hemp,  the  largest  stalk 
of  hemp,  firmness  of  mind. 

Carlin,  a stout  old  woman. 

Cartes,  cards. 

Caudron,  a caldron. 

Cauk  and  keel,  chalk  and  red 
clay. 

Cauld,  cold. 

Caup,  a wooden  drinking 
vessel. 

Cavie,  a coop  or  pen  for 
poultry. 

Cawd,  driven. 

Cesses,  taxes. 

Chanter,  a part  of  a bagpipe 

Chap,  a person,  a fellow,  a 
blow. 

Chaup,  a stroke,  a blow. 

Cheekit,  cheeked. 


Cheep,  a chirp  ; to  chirp. 

Chiel,  or  Cheel,  a young  fel- 
low. 

Chimla,  or  Chimlie,  a fire- 
grate, a fire-place. 

Chimla-lug,  the  fireside. 

Chittering,  shivering,  trem- 
bling. 

Chockin,  choking. 

Chow,  to  chew  ; Cheek-for- 
chow,  side-by-side. 

Chuffie,  fat-faced. 

Clachan,  a small  village 
about  a church,  a ham- 
let. 

Claise,  or  Claes,  clothes. 

Claith,  cloth. 

Claithing,  clothing. 

Claivers,  nonsense  ; not 
speaking  sense. 

Clap,  clapper  of  a mill. 

Clarkit,  wrote. 

Clash,  an  idle  tale,  the  story 
of  the  day. 

Clatter,  to  tell  little  idle  sto- 
ries ; an  idle  story. 

Claught,  snatched  at,  laid 
hold  of. 

Claut,  to  clean,  to  scrape  ; a 
heap,  a great  quantity, 
abundance. 

Clauted,  scraped. 

Claver,  clover. 

Clavers,  idle  stories. 

Claw,  to  scratch. 

Claw’d,  scratched. 

Claymore,  a sword,  a weapon 


GLOSSARY. 


used  either  in  cutting  or 
thrusting. 

deed,  to  clothe. 

deeds,  clothes. 

Cleek,  to  lay  hold  of  after 
the  manner  of  a hook,  to 
seize  at  all  events. 

Cleekit,  having  caught. 

Clinkin,  jerking,  clinking. 

Clinkumbell,  he  who  rings 
the  church  bell. 

dips,  shears. 

Clishmaclaver,  idle  conver- 
sation. 

dock,  to  hatch  ; a beetle. 

Clockin,  hatching. 

doot,  the  hoof  of  a cow, 
sheep,  &c. 

Clootie,  an  old  name  for  the 
Devil.  • 

dour,  a bump,  or  swelling, 
after  a blow. 

Clout,  to  beat,  to  strike ; a 
blow,  a cuff. 

Cluds,  clouds. 

Clunk,  to  guggle  in  the  man- 
ner of  a bottle  when  it  is 
emptying. 

Coaxin,  wheedling ; flattery. 

Coble,  a fishing  boat. 

Cockernony,  a lock  of  hair 
tied  upon  a girl’s  head,  a 
cap. 

Cockie,  dimin.  of  cock. 

Coft,  bought. 

Cog,  a wooden  dish. 

Coggie,  dimin.  of  cog. 

42# 


497 

Coila,  from  Kyle,  a district 
of  Ayrshire,  so  called  from 
Coil,  or  Coilus,  a Pictish 
monarch. 

Collie,  a general,  and  some- 
times a particular  name  for 
country  curs. 

Collieshangie,  quarrelling. 

Commaun,  command. 

Cood,  the  cud. 

Coof,  a blockhead,  a ninny. 

Cookit,  appeared  and  disap- 
peared by  fits. 

Cooser,  a horse  kept  for 
mares.  * 

Coost,  did  cast. 

Coot,  the  ancle,  or  foot. 

Cootie,  a wooden  kitchen 
dish  ; fowls  whose  legs  are 
clad  with  feathers  are  said 
to  be  cootie. 

Corbies,  a species  of  the 
crow. 

Core,  corps,  party,  clan. 

Corn’t,  fed  with  oats. 

Cotter,  the  inhabitant  of  a 
cot-house  or  cottage. 

Couthie,  kind,  loving. 

Cove,  a cave. 

Cowe,  to  terrify,  to  keep  un- 
der, to  lop ; a fright,  a 
branch  of  furze,  broom, 
&c. 

Cowp,  to  barter,  to  tumble 
over ; a gang. 

Cowpit,  tumbled. 

Cowrin,  cowering,  stooping. 


► 

498  GLOSSARY. 

Cowt,  a colt,  a young  horse. 

Croon,  a hollow,  continued 

Cozie,  snug. 

moan ; to  make  a noise 

Coziely,  snugly. 

like  the  continued  roar  of 

Crabbit,  crabbed,  fretful, 

a bull,  to  hum  a tune. 

sour. 

Crooning,  humming. 

Crack,  to  converse ; conver- 

Crouchie,  crook-backed. 

sation. 

Crouse,  cheerful,  courageous. 

Crackin,  conversing. 

Crousely,  cheerfully,  cour- 

Craft, or  Croft,  in  old  hus- 

ageously. 

bandry,  a field  near  a 

Crowdie,  a composition  of 

house. 

oat-meal  and  boiled  water, 

Craigie,  dimin.  of  crag,  the 

sometimes  from  the  broth 

throat,  the  neck. 

of  beef,  mutton,  &c. 

Craiks,  birds,  incessant  calls 

Crowdie-tiAe,  breakfast- 

or cries. 

time. 

Crambo -clink,  or  Crambo  - 

Crowlin,  crawling,  creeping. 

jingle,  rhymes,  doggerel 

Crummock,  a cow  with 

verses. 

crooked  horns.  . m 

Crank,  the  noise  of  an  un- 

Crump, hard  and  brittle  ; — 

greased  wheel. 

spoken  of  bread. 

Crankous,  fretful,  captious. 

Crunt,  a blow  on  the  head 

Cranreuch,  the  hoar  frost. 

with  a cudgel. 

Crap,  or  Crop,  the  produce 

Cuif,  a blockhead,  a ninny. 

of  land ; to  crop. 

Cummock,  a short  staff  with 

Craw,  a crow  of  a cock  ; a 

a crooked  head. 

rook. 

Curchie,  a courtesy. 

Creel,  a kind  of  osier  basket ; 

Curler,  a player  at  a game 

To  have  one’s  wits  in  a 

on  the  ice,  practised  in 

creel , to  be  crazed,  to  be 

Scotland,  called  curling. 

fascinated. 

Curlie,  curled ; one  whose 

Creeshie,  greasy. 

hair  falls  naturally  in  ring- 

Cronie, or  Crony,  an  intimate 

lets. 

acquaintance. 

Curling,  a well  known  game 

Crood,  or  Croud,  to  coo,  as  a 

on  the  ice. 

dove. 

Curmurring,  murmuring;  a 

Crooks,  old  ewes  that  have 

slight  rumbling  noise. 

given  over  bearing. 

Curpin,  the  crupper. 

GLOSSARY.  499 

Cushat,  the  dove,  or  wood- 

Bawtit,  or  Bautet,  fondled, 

pigeon. 

caressed. 

Cutty,  short ; a spoon  broken 

Bearies,  dimin.  of  dears. 

in  the  middle,  a light  wo- 

Bearthfu’,  dear. 

man. 

Beave,  deafen. 

Cutty-stool,  a stool  on  which 

Beil-ma-care,  no  matter  for 

culprits  sit  when  making 

all  that. 

public  satisfaction  in  the 

Beleerit,  delirious. 

kirk,  for  haying  committed 

Bescrive,  to  describe. 

fornication. 

Bevle,  a stunning  blow. 

Biddle,  to  shake,  to  jog. 

B. 

Bight,  to  wipe,  to  clean  com 

from  chaff;  cleaned  from 

B addie,  a father. 

chaff. 

Daezt,  stupified,  deprived  of 

Bights,  clean. 

vigor  or  sensibility. 

Bin,  sallow. 

Baffin,  merriment,  foolish- 

Bing, to  worst,  to  push. 

ness. 

Binna,  do  not. 

Baft,  merry,  giddy,  foolish. 

Birl,  a slight  tremulous 

Baimen,  rare,  now  and  then. 

stroke  or  pain. 

Baimen-icker,  an  ear  of  com 

Bizzen,  or  Biz’n,  a dozen. 

now  and  then. 

Boited,  stupified,  hebetated. 

Bainty,  pleasant,  good  hu- 

Bolt, stupified,  crazed ; a 

mored,  agreeable. 

stupid  fellow. 

Bales,  plains,  valleys. 

Bonsie,  unlucky. 

Banton,  to  intimidate,  to 

Bool,  sorrow ; to  sing  dool , 

subdue. 

to  lament,  to  mourn. 

Bam,  urine,  piddle. 

Boos,  doves. 

Barklins,  darkling,  being  in 

Borty,  saucy,  nice,  discon- 

the dark,  void  of  light. 

tented. 

Baud,  to  thrash,  to  abuse. 

Bouce,  or  Bouse,  sober,  wise, 

Baur,  to  dare,  to  defy. 

prudent. 

Baurt,  dared,  defied. 

Boucely,  soberly,  prudently. 

Baurg,  or  Baurk,  a day’s  la- 

Bought, was,  or  were  able. 

bor. 

Boup  skelper,  one  who 

Bavoc,  Bavid. 

strikes  the  tail. 

Bawd,  a large  piece. 

Boup,  the  backside. 

GLOSSARY. 


500 


Dour,  sullen,  obstinate. 

Doure,  stout,  durable,  sullen, 
stubborn. 

Douser,  more  prudent. 

Dow,  am,  or  are  able,  can. 

DowfF,  pithless,  wanting 
spirit. 

Dowie,  worn  with,  grief,  fa- 
tigue, &c.,  half  asleep. 

Downa,  am,  or  are  not  able, 
cannot. 

Doylt,  stupid. 

Drap,  a drop  ; to  drop. 

Drapping,  dropping. 

Draunting,  drawling. 

Dreep,  to  ooze,  to  drop. 

Dreigh,  tedious,  long  about 
it. 

Dribble,  drizzling ; slaver. 

Driddle,  to  be  diligent  insig- 
nificantly. 

Drift,  a drove. 

Droddum,  the  beech. 

Drone,  part  of  a bagpipe. 

Drop-rumpl’t,  that  droops  at 
the  crupper. 

Droukit,  drenched,  wet. 

Drouth,  thirst,  drought. 

Drucken,  drunken. 

Drumly,  muddy,  thick,  ob- 
scure. 

Drummock,  meal  and  water 
mixed  raw. 

Drunt,  pet,  sour  humor. 

Dub,  a small  pond. 

Duds,  rags,  clothes. 

Duddie,  ragged. 


Dung,  worsted,  pushed, 
driven,  exhausted. 
Dunted,  beaten,  boxed. 
Dush,  to  push,  as  a ram,  &c 
Dusht,  pushed  by  a ram,  ox, 
&c. 

E. 

E’e,  the  eye. 

Een,  the  eyes. 

E’enin’,  evening,  the  close 
of  the  day. 

Eerie,  frighted,  dreading 
spirits. 

Eild,  old  age. 

Elbuck,  the  elbow. 

Eldritch,  ghastly,  frightful. 
En’,  end. 

Enbrugh,  Edinburgh. 
Eneugh,  enough. 

Especial,  especially. 

Ettle,  to  try,  to  attempt,  to 
endeavor. 

Eydent,  diligent,  industri- 
ous. 

E. 

Fa’,  fall,  lot ; to  fall. 

Fa's,  does  fall ; water-falls. 
Faddom’t,  fathomed. 

Fae,  a foe,  an  enemy. 

Faem,  foam. 

Faiket,  unknown,  unem* 
ployed. 

Fairin,  a present  at  fair- time. 


GLOSSARY. 


Fallow,  fellow. 

Fand,  did  find. 

Farl,  a cake  of  bread. 

Fash,  trouble,  care ; to  troub- 
le, to  care  for. 

Fashious,  troublesome. 

Fasht,  troubled. 

Fastem  E’en,  Easteens  Even. 

Fauld,  a fold  ; to  fold. 

Faulding,  folding. 

Faut,  fault. 

Eawsont,  decent,  seemly. 

Feal,  a field ; smooth. 

Fearfu’,  frightful. 

Fear’t,  frighted. 

Feat,  neat,  spruce. 

Fecht,  to  fight ; a struggle, 
of  whatever  kind. 

Fechtin,  or  Fetchin,  fight- 
ing. 

Feck,  many,  plenty. 

Fecket,  waistcoat. 

Feckfu’,  large,  brawny,  stout. 

Feckless,  puny,  weak,  silly, 
trifling. 

Feckly,  weakly. 

Feg,  a fig. 

Feide,  feud,  enmity. 

Fell,  keen,  biting  ; the  flesh 
immediately  under  the 
skin,  a field  pretty  level 
on  the  side  or  top  of  a 
hill. 

Fen,  successful  struggle, 
fight. 

Fend,  to  live  comfortably. 

Ferlie,  or  Ferly,  to  wonder  ; 


50 

a wonder,  a term  of  con- 
tempt. 

Fetch,  to  pull  by  fits. 

Fetch’t,  pulled  intermittent- 

Fey,  foe.  [ly. 

Fidge,  to  fidget. 

Fiel,  soft,  smooth. 

Fient,  fiend,  a petty  oath. 

Fier,  sound,  healthy ; a 
brother,  a friend. 

Fisle,  to  make  a rustling 
noise,  to  fidget ; a bustle. 

Fit,  a foot. 

Fizz,  to  make  a hissing  noise, 
like  fermentation. 

Flainen,  flannel. 

Fleech,  to  supplicate,  or  en- 
treat, in  a flattering  man- 
ner. 

Fleech’ d,  supplicated. 

Fleechin,  supplicating. 

Fleesh,  a fleece. 

Fleg,  a lack,  a random  blow. 

Flether,  to  decoy  by  fair 
words. 

Fletherin,  flattering. 

Flewit,  a smart  blow. 

Fley,  to  scare,  to  frighten. 

Flichter,  to  flutter,  as  young 
nestlings,  when  their  dam 
approaches. 

Flinders,  shreds,  broken 
pieces. 

Flingin-tree,  a piece  of  tim- 
ber hung  by  way  of  par- 
tition between  two  horses 
in  a stable,  a flail. 


502 


GLOSSARY. 


Flisk,  to  fret  at  the  yoke. 
Fliskit,  fretted. 

Flitter,  to  vibrate,  like  the 
wings  of  small  birds. 
Flittering,  fluttering,  vibrat- 
ing. 

Flunkie,  a servant  in  livery. 
Foord,  a ford. 

Forbears,  forefathers,  ances- 
tors. 

Forbye,  besides. 

Forfain,  distressed,  worn  out, 
jaded. 

Forfoughten,  fatigued. 
Forgather,  to  meet,  to  en- 
• counter  with. 

Forge,  to  forgive. 

Forj  esket,  j aded  with  fatigue. 
Forrit,  forward. 

Fother,  fodder. 

Fou,  full,  drunk. 

Foughten,  troubled,  ha- 
rassed. 

Fouth,  plenty,  enough,  more 
than  enough. 

Fow,  a bushel,  &c.,  also  a 
pitchfork. 

Frae,  from. 

Freath,  froth. 

Frien’,  friend. 

Fu’,  full. 

Fud,  the  scut  or  tail  of  the 
hare,  coney,  &c. 

Fuff,  to  blow  intermittently. 
Fuff ’t,  did  blow. 

Funnie,  full  of  merriment. 
Fur,  a furrow. 


Furm,  a form,  bench. 

Fyke,  trifling  cares  ; to  pid- 
dle, to  be  in  a fuss  about 
trifles,  to  agitate. 

Fyle,  to  soil,  to  dirty,  to  pol- 
lute. 

Fyl’t,  soiled,  dirtied,  pollut- 
ed. 

G. 

Gab,  the  mouth;  to  speak 
boldly  or  pertly. 

Gaberlunzie,  an  old  man. 

Gadsman,  a ploughboy,  the 
boy  that  drives  the  horses 
in,  the  plough. 

Gae,  to  go. 

Gaed,  went. 

Gaen,  or  Gane,  gone. 

Gaet,  or  Gate,  way,  manner, 
road. 

Gang,  to  go,  to  walk. 

Gangrel,  strolling  wander- 
ing, roving. 

Gar,  to  make,  to  force. 

Gar’t,  forced. 

Garten,  a garter. 

Gash,  wise,  sagacious,  talk- 
ative ; to  converse. 

Gasilin,  conversing. 

Gaucy,  jolly,  large. 

Gaun,  going. 

Gawky,  half-witted,  foolish, 
romping. 

Gear,  riches,  goods  of  any 
kind. 


GLOSSARY. 


Geek,  to  toss  the  head  in 
wantonness  or  scorn. 

Ged,  a pike. 

Gentles,  great  folks. 

Geordie,  a guinea. 

Get,  a child,  a young  one. 

Ghaist,  a ghost. 

Gie,  to  give. 

Gied,  gave. 

Gien,  given. 

Giftie,  diinin.  of  gift. 

Giglets,  playful  girls. 

Gillie,  dimin.  of  gill. 

Gilpey,  a half-crown,  a half- 
informed  boy  or  girl,  a 
romping  lad,  a hoiden. 

Gimmer,  an  ewe  from  one 
to  two  years  old. 

Gin,  if,  against. 

Gipsey,  a young  girl. 

Girdle,  a round  plate  of  iron 
for  toasting  cakes  over  the 
fire. 

Girn,  to  grin,  to  twist  the 
features  in  rage,  agony, 
&c. 

Girning,  grinning. 

Gizz,  a periwig. 

Glaikit,  inattentive,  foolish. 

Glaive,  a sword. 

Glaizie,  glittering,  smooth, 
like  glass. 

Glaum’d,  aimed,  snatched. 

Gleg,  sharp,  ready. 

Gleib,  glebe. 

Glen,  dale,  deep  valley. 

Gley,  a squint ; to  squint. 


503 

Glib-gabbet,  that  speaks 
smoothly  and  readily. 

Glint,  to  peep. 

Glinted,  peeped. 

Glintin,  peeping. 

Gloamin,  the  twilight. 

Glowr,  to  stare,  to  look ; a 
stare,  a look. 

Glowr’ d,  looked,  stared. 

Glowran,  staring. 

Goavan,  looking  or  staring 
awkwardly. 

Gowan,  the  flower  of  the 
daisy,  dandelion,  hawk- 
weed,  &c. 

Gowany  ; Gowany  Glens, 
daisied  dales. 

Gowd,  gold. 

GowfF,  the  name  of  golf ; to 
strike,  as  the  bat  does  the 
ball  at  golf. 

Gowff’d,  struck. 

Gowk,  a cuckoo,  a term  of 
contempt. 

Gowl,  to  howl. 

Gowling,  howling. 

Graff,  a grave. 

Grain,  or  Grane,  a groan ; to 
groan. 

Grain’d  and  Graunted, 
groaned  and  grunted. 

Graining,  groaning. 

Graip,  a pronged  instrument 
for  cleansing  stables. 

Graith,  accoutrements,  fur- 
niture, dress. 

Grannie,  a grandmother. 


504  GLOSSARY. 

Grape,  to  grope. 

Guidmother,  a mother-in- 

Grapit,  groped. 

law. 

Grat,  wept,  shed  tears. 

Gully,  or  Gullie,  a large 

Great,  intimate,  familiar. 

knife. 

Gree,  to  agree  ; To  bear  the 

Gumlie,  mud’dy,  turbid. 

gree,  to  be  decidedly  vie- 

Gumption,  understanding, 

tor. 

judgment. 

Gree’t,  agreed. 

Gusty,  tasteful. 

Greet,  to  shed  tears,  to 

weep. 

H. 

Greetin,  crying,  weeping. 

Grippet,  caught,  seized. 

Ha’,  hall. 

Groat ; To  wet  the  whistle 

Ha’ -Bible,  the  great  Bible 

of  one’s  groat , to  play  a 

that  lies  in  the  hall. 

losing  game. 

Hae,  to  have. 

Grousome,  loathsome,  grim. 

Haen,  had. 

Grozet,  a gooseberry. 

Haet ; Fient  hact , a -petty 

Grumph,  a grunt ; to  grunt. 

oath  of  negation,  nothing. 

Grumphie,  a sow. 

HafFet,  the  temple,  the  side 

Grun’,  ground. 

of  the  head. 

Grunstane,  a grindstone. 

Hafhins,  nearly  half,  partly. 

Gruntle,  the  phiz,  a grunting 

Hag,  a scar  or  gulf  in  mosses 

noise. 

or  moors,  an  ugly  old  wo- 

Grunzie, the  mouth. 

man. 

Grushie,  thick,  of  thriving 

Haggis,  a kind  of  pudding 

growth. 

boiled  in  the  stomach  of  a 

Gude,  the  Supreme  Being  ; 

cow  or  sheep. 

good. 

Hain,  to  spare,  to  save. 

Guid,  good. 

Hain’d,  spared. 

Guid-morning,  good  morn- 

Hairst, harvest. 

ing. 

Haith,  a petty  oath.  ; 

Guid-e’en,  good  evening. 

Haivers,  nonsense ; speaking 

Guidman  and  Guidwife,  the 

without  thought. 

master  and  mistress  of  the 

Hal’,  or  Hald,  an  abiding 

house  ; Young  guidmany  a 

place. 

man  newly  married. 

Hale,  whole,  tight,  healthy. 

Guidfather,  a father-in-law. 

Ilaly,  holy. 

GLOSSARY. 


505 


Hallan,  a particular  partition 
wall  in  a cottage,  or  more 
properly  a seat  of  turf  at 
the  outside.  . - 

Hallowmas,  Hallow- eve,  the 
31st  of  October. 

Hame,  home. 

Hamely,  homely,  affable. 

Hameward,  homeward. 

Han’,  or  Harm’,  hand. 

Hap,  an  outer  garment,  man- 
tle, plaid,  &c. ; t^o  wrap,  to 
cover,  to  hap. 

Happer,  a hopper. 

Happing,  hopping. 

Hap-step-an’-loup,hop-skip- 

and-leap. 

Harkit,  hearkened. 

Harn,  very  coarse  linen. 

Hash,  a fellow  that  neither 
knows  how  to  dress  nor 
act  with  propriety. 

Hastit,  hastened. 

Haud,  to  hold. 

Haughs* low-lying  rich  lands, 
valleys. 

Haurl,  to  drag,  to  peel. 

Haurlin,  peeling. 

Haverel,  a half-witted  per- 
son, one  who  talks  fool- 
ishly. 

Havins,  good  manners,  de- 
corum, good  sense. 

Ifawkie,  a cow,  properly  one 
with  a white  face. 

Healsome,  healthful,  whole- 
some. 

43 


Ileapit,  heaped. 

Hearse,  hoarse. 

Hcar’t,  hear  it. 

Heartie,  dimin,  of  heart. 

Heather,  heath. 

Hech ! oh  ! strange  ! 

Hecht,  promised ; to  foretell 
something  that  is  to  be  got 
or  given  ; foretold  ; the 
thing  foretold ; offered. 

Heckle,  a board  in  which  are 
fixed  a number  of  sharp 
pins,  used  in  dressing 
hemp,  flax,  &c. 

Heeze,  to  elevate,  to  raise. 

Helim,  the  rudder  or  helm. 

Herd,  to  tend  flocks ; one 
who  tends  flocks. 

Herrin,  a herring. 

Herry,  to  plunder,  most 
properly  to  plunder  birds* 
nests. 

Herryment,  plundering,  de- 
vastation. 

Hers  el’,  herself ; also,  a herd 
of  cattle  of  any  sort. 

Het,  hot. 

Heugh,  a crag,  a coal-pit. 

Hide  and  Hair,  the  carcass 
and  hide,  the  whole. 

Ililch,  to  hobble,  to  halt. 

Hilchin,  halting. 

Hiltie-skiltie,  in  rapid  suc« 
cession. 

Himsei’,  himself. 

Hiney,  honey. 

Hing,  hang. 


506 


GLOSSARY* 


Hirple,  to  walk  crazily,  to 
creep. 

Hirplin,  walking  crazily. 

Hirsel,  so  many  cattle  as  one 
person  can  attend. 

ITistie,  dry,  chapt,  barren. 

Hitch,  a loop,  a knot. 

II  izzie,  huzzy,  a young  girl. 

Iloddin,  the  motion  of  a sago 
countryman  riding  on  a 
cart  horse;  humble. 

Hog-score,  a kind  of  distance 
line,  in  curling,  drawn 
across  the  rink. 

Hog-shouther,  a kind  of 
horse-play,  by  justling 
with  the  shoulder ; to 
justle. 

IIool,  outer  skin  or  case,  a 
nut-shell,  peas- cod. 

Hoolie,  slowly,  leisurely. 

Hoolie  ! take  leisure  ! stop  ! 

Hoord,  a hoard  ; to  hoard. 

Hoordit,  hoarded. 

Horn,  a spoon  made  of 
horn. 

Hornie,  one  of  the  many 
names  of  the  Devil. 

Host,  or  Hoast,  to  cough. 

Ilostin,  coughing. 

Hosts,  coughs. 

Hotch’d,  turned  topsy-tur- 
vey,  blended,  mixed. 

Iloughmagandie,  fornication. 

Ifoup,  hope. 

Ilousie,  dimin.  of  house. 

Hove,  to  heave,  to  swell. 


Hoy’d,  heaved,  swelled. 

Howdie,  a midwife. 

Howe,  hollow ; a hollow  or 
dell. 

Howe-backit,  sunk  in  the 
back ; spoken  of  a horse, 
&c. 

HowfF,  a landlady,  a house 
of  resort. 

Howk,  to  dig. 

Howkit,  digged. 

Howkin,  digging. 

Howlet,  or  Houlet,  an  owl. 

Hoy,  to  urge. 

Hoy’t,  urged. 

Hoyse,  a pull  upwards. 

Hoyte,  to  amble  crazily. 

Hughoc,  dimin  of  Hugh. 

Hunkers,  the  ham,  the  hind- 
er part  of  the  thigh. 

Hurcheon,  a hedgehog ; a 
term  of  slight  anger. 

Hurdies,  the  loins,  the  crup- 
per. 

Hushion,  a cushion,  stock- 
ings without  feet. 

I. 

I’,  in. 

Icker,  an  car  of  corn. 

Ier-oe,  a great-grand-child. 

Ilk,  or  Ilka,  each,  every. 

Ill-willie,  ill-natured,  mali- 
cious, niggardly. 

Inginc,  genius,  ingenuity. 

Ingle,  fire,  fire-place. 


GLOSSARY. 


507 


I’sc,  I shall  or  will. 

Ither,  other,  one  another. 

J. 

Jad,  jade ; also,  a familiar 
term  among  country  folks 
for  a giddy  young  girl. 

Jag,  to  prick,  to  pierce. 

Jauk,  to  dally,  to  trifle. 

Jaukin,  trifling,  dallying. 

Jauntie,  dimin.  of  jaunt. 

Jaup,  a jerk  of  wrater ; to 
jerk,  as  agitated  water. 

Jaw,  coarse  raillery ; to  pour 
out,  to  shut,  to  jerk,  as 
water. 

Jillit,  a jilt,  a giddy  girl. 

Jimp,  to  jump ; slender  in 
the  waist,  handsome. 

Jink,  to  dodge,  to  turn  a cor- 
ner ; a sudden  turning  a 
corner. 

Jinker,  one  who  turns  quick- 
ly, a gay  sprightly  girl,  a 

Jinking,  dodging.  [wag. 

Jirk,  a jerk. 

Jo,  or  Joe,  a sweetheart,  a 
favorite. 

Jocteleg,  a kind  of  knife. 

Jouk,  to  stoop,  to  bow  the 
head. 

Jow;  To  jow,  a verb  which 
includes  both  the  swing- 
ing motion  and  pealing 
sound  of  a large  beU^ 

Jundie,  to  justle. 


K. 

Kae,  a daw. 

Kail,  colewort,  a kind  of 
broth. 

Kail-runt,  the  stem  of  cole- 
wort. 

Kain,  fowls,  &c.,  paid  as  rent 
by  a farmer. 

Kaiugh,  carking*  anxiety. 

Kebars,  rafters. 

Kebbuck,  a cheese. 

Keek,  a peep  ; to  peep. 

Kelpies,  a sort  of  mischiev- 
ous spirits,  said  to  haunt 
fords  and  ferries  at  night, 
especially  in  storms. 

Ken,  to  know. 

Ken’d,  or  Kent,  knew. 

Kinnin,  a small  matter. 

Kenspeckle,  well  known. 

Ket,  matted,  hairy  ; a fleet  e 
of  wool. 

Kilt,  to  tfuss  up  the  clothes. 

Kimmer,  a young  girl,  a gos- 
sip. 

Kin,  kindred. 

Kin’,  kind. 

King’s -hood,  a certain  part 
of  the  entrails  of  an  ox, 

Kintra,  country.  [&c. 

Kintra-coozer,  a country 
stallion. 

I£irn,  the  harvest  supper,  a 
chum ; to  chum. 

Kirsen,  to  christen,  or  bap- 
tize. 


J 


GLOSSARY. 


508 


Kist,  a cliest,  a shop  counter. 

Kitchen,  any  thing  that  is 
eaten  with  bread,  to  serve 
for  soup,  gravy,  &c. 

Kith,  kindred. 

Kittle,  to  tickle ; ticklish, 
likely. 

Kittlin,  a young  cat. 

Kiuttle,  to  cuddle. 

Kiuttlin,  cuddling. 

Knaggie,  like  nags  or  points 
of  rocks. 

Knappin-hammer,  a hammer 
for  breaking  stones. 

Knowe,  a small  round  hil- 
lock. 

Knurl,  a dwarf. 

Kye,  cows. 

Kyle,  a district  of  Ayrshire. 

Kyte,  the  belly. 

Kythe,  to  discover,  to  show 
one’s  self. 

L.  % 

Laddie,  dimin.  of  lad. 

Laggen,  the  angle  between 
the  side  and  bottom  of  a 
wooden  dish. 

Laigh,  low. 

Lairing,  wading  and  sinking 
in  snow,  mud,  &c. 

Laith,  loath. 

Laithfu’,  bashful,  sheepish, 
modest. 

Lalland,  a native  of  the  low- 
lands of  Scotland. 


Lallans,  Scottish  dialect. 

Lambie,  dimin.  of  lamb. 

Lampit,  a kind  of  shell-fish. 

Lan’,  land,  estate. 

Lane,  lone ; My  lane , thy 
lane,  &c. 

Lanely,  lonely. 

Lang,  long  ; To  think  lang , 
to  long,  to  weary. 

Lap,  did  leap. 

Lave,  the  rest,  the  remain- 
der, the  others. 

Laverock,  the  lark. 

Lawin,  shot,  reckoning,  bill. 

Lawlan’,  Lowland. 

Lea,  pasture,  ground  un- 
ploughed. 

Lea’e,  to  leave. 

Leal,  loyal,  true,  faithful. 

Lea-rig,  grassy  ridge. 

Lear,  (pronounced  lave,') 
learning. 

Lee-lang,  live-long. 

Leesome,  pleasant. 

Leeze  me,  a phrase  of  con- 
gratulatory endearment : I 
am  happy  in  thee,  or  proud 
of  thee. 

Leister,  a three-pronged  dart 
for  striking  fish. 

Leugh,  did  laugh. 

Leuk,  a look  ; to  look. 

Libbet,  gelded. 

Lie’n,  lying. 

Lift,  sky. 

Lightly,  sneeringly  ; to  sneer 
at. 


GLOSSARY. 


Lilt,  a ballad,  a tune ; to 
sing. 

dimmer,  a kept  mistress,  a 
strumpet. 

Limp’t,  limped,  hobbled. 

Link,  to  trip  along. 

Linkin,  tripping. 

Linn,  a water-fall,  a preci- 
pice. 

Lint,  flax ; Lint  i’  the  bell, 
flax  in  flower. 

Lintwhite,  a linnet. 

Lippen’d,  trusted,  put  confi- 
dence in. 

Loan,  or  Loanin,  the  place 
of  milking. 

Loof,  the  palm  of  the  hand. 

Loot,  did  let. 

Looyes,  plural  of  loof. 

Loun,  a fellow,  a ragamuffin, 
a woman  of  easy  virtue. 

Loup,  jump,  leap. 

Lowe,  a flame. 

Lowin,  flaming. 

Lowrie,  abbreviation  of  Law- 
rence. 

Lowse,  to  loose. 

Lows' d,  loosed. 

Lug,  the  ear,  a handle. 

Luggie,  a small  wooden  dish 
with  a handle. 

Lum,  the  chimney. 

Lunch,  a large  piece  of 
cheese,  flesh,  & c. 

Lunt,  a column  of  smoke ; 
to  smoke. 

Lunt  in,  smoking. 

43* 


509 

Lyart,  of  a mixed  color, 
gray. 

M. 

Mae,  more. 

Mair,  more. 

Maist,  most,  almost. 

Maistly,  mostly. 

Mak,  to  make. 

Makin,  making. 

Mailen,  a farm. 

Mallie,  Molly. 

’Mang,  among.  v 

Manse,  the  parsonage  house, 
where  the  minister  lives. 

Manteele,  a mantle. 

Mark,  or  Merk,  an  ancient 
Scottish  silver”  coin,  in 
value  thirteen  pence  and 
one- third  of  a penny  ster- 
ling. 

Mark,  marks.  [This  and 
several  other  nouns,  which 
in  English  require  an  s to 
form  the  plural,  are,  in 
Scotch,  like  the  words 
sheep,  deer,  the  same  in 
both  numbers.] 

Mar’s  year,  the  year  1715. 

Mashlum,  or  Meslin,  mixed 
corn. 

Mask,  to  mash,  as  malt,  &C* 
to  infuse. 

Maskin-pat,  a tea-pot. 

Mauken,  a hare. 

Maun,  must. 


GLOSSARY. 


510 

Mavis,  the  thrush. 

Maw,  to  mow. 

Mawin,  mowing. 

Meere,  a mare. 

Meickle,  or  Meilde,  much. 

Melancholious,  mournful. 

Melder,  corn,  or  grain  of  any 
kind,  sent  to  the  mill  to  be 
ground. 

Mell,  to  meddle ; also,  a 
mallet  for  pounding  bar- 
ley in  a stone  trough. 

Melvie,  to  soil  with  meal. 

Men’,  to  amend,  to  reform, 
to  change  from  worse  to 
better. 

Mense,  good  manners,  deco- 
rum. 

Menseless,  ill  bred,  rude,  im- 
pudent. 

Messin,  a small  dog. 

Midden,  a dung-hill. 

Midden- creels,  baskets  for 
holding  dung. 

Midden-hole,  a gutter  at  the 
bottom  of  a dunghill. 

Mid,  prim,  affectedly  meek. 

Min’,  mind,  remembrance. 

Mind’t,  mind  it,  resolved,  in- 
tending. 

Minnie,  mother,  dam. 

Mirk,  dark. 

Mirkest,  darkest. 

Misca’,  to  abuse,  to  call 

Misca’ d,  abused.  [names. 

Mislear’d,  mischievous,  un- 
mannerly. 


Misteuk,  mistook. 

Mither,  a mother. 

Mixtie-maxtie,  confusedly 
mixed. 

Moil,  labor. 

Moistify,  to  moisten. 

Monie,  or  Mony,  many. 

Moop,  to  nibble,  as  a sheep. 

Moorlan’,  of  or  belonging  to 
moors. 

Morn,  the  next  day,  to-mor- 
row. 

Mottie,  full  of  motes  or  small 
particles  of  matter. 

Mou,  the  mouth. 

Moudiewort,  a mole. 

Mousie,  dimin.  of  mouse. 

Muckle,  or  Mickle,  great, 
big,  much. 

Musie,  dimin.  of  muse. 

Muslin-kail,  broth  composed 
simply  of  water,  shelled 
barley,  and  greens. 

Mutchldn,  an  English  pint. 

Mysel’,  myself. 

N. 

Na,  no,  not,  nor. 

Nae,  no,  not  any. 

Naething,  or  l^aithing,  no«* 
thing. 

Naig,  a horse. 

Nane,  none. 

Nappy,  ale  ; to  be  tipsy. 

Natch,  to  lay  hold  of  vio« 
lcntly. 


GLOSSARY. 


Neebor,  a neighbor. 

Negleckit,  neglected. 

Neuk,  nook. 

Niest,  next  in  order,  or  next 
in  time. 

Nieve,  the  fist. 

Nievefu’,  a handful,  a small 
quantity. 

NiefFer,  an  exchange  ; to  ex- 
change, to  barter. 

Niger,  a negro. 

Nine-t^iled-cat,  a hangman’s 
whip. 

Nit,  a nut. 

Norland,  of  or  belonging  to 
the  north. 

Notic’t,  noticed,  observed. 

Nowte,  black  cattle. 

O. 

O’,  of. 

Ochils,  name  of  mountains. 

O haith  ! O faith  ! an  oath. 

Onie,  or  Ony,  any. 

Or  is  often  used  for  ere , be- 
fore. 

Orra,  superfluous,  unwanted. 

O’t,  of  it. 

Oughtlins,  in  the  least  de- 
gree. 

Ourie,  shivering,  drooping. 

Oursel’,  or  Oursels,  our- 
selves. 

Outlers,  cattle  not  housed. 

Owre,  over,  too. 

Owre-hip,  a way  of  fetching 


511 

a blow  with  a hammer 
over  the  arm. 

P. 

Pack,  intimate,  familiar ; 
twelve  stone  of  wool. 

Paidel,  to  paddle,  to  play  in 
water. 

Painch,  the  paunch. 

Paitrick,  a partridge. 

Pang,  to  cram. 

Parle,  speech. 

Parritch,  oat-meal  pudding, 
a well-known  Scotch  dish. 

Pat,  did  put ; a pot. 

Pattle,  or  Pettle,  a plough- 
staff. 

Paughty,  proud,  haughty. 

Pawky,  or  Pawkie,  cunning, 
sly. 

Pay’t,  paid,  beat. 

Pech,  to  fetch  the  breath 
short,  as  in  an  asthma. 

Pechan,  the  crop,  the  sto 
mach. 

Peelin,  peeling. 

Pet,  a domesticated  sheep,  a 
great  favorite. 

Pettle,  to  cherish  ; a plough- 
staff. 

Philabegs,  short  petticoats, 
worn  by  Highlandmen. 

Phraise,  fair  speeches,  flat- 
tery; to  flatter,  to  whee- 
dle. 

Phraisin,  flattery. 


512 


GLOSSARY. 


Pibroch,  a Highland  war- 
song,  adapted  to  the  bag- 
pipe. 

Pickle,  a small  quantity. 

Pine,  pain,  uneasiness. 

Pit,  to  put. 

Placard,  a public  proclama- 
tion. 

Plack,  an  old  Scotch  coin, 
the  third  part  of  a Scotch 
penny,  twelve  of  which 
make  an  English  penny. 

Plackless,  penniless,  without 
money. 

Plaid,  an  outer  loose  gar- 
ment. 

Platie,  dimin.  of  plate. 

Pleugh,  or  Plew,  a plough. 

Pliskie,  a trick,  a mischief. 

Pock,  a bag,  a small  sack. 

Poind,  to  seize  on  cattle,  or 
take  the  goods,  as  the  laws 
of  Scotland  allow,  for  rent. 

Poortith,  poverty,  indigence. 

Pou,  to  pull. 

Pouch,  a pocket. 

Pouchie,  dimin.  of  pouch. 

Pouk,  to  pluck. 

Pouse,  to  push,  to  penetrate. 

Poussie,  a hare,  a cat. 

Pout,  a poult,  a chick. 

Pou’t,  did  pull. 

Pouther,  or  Powther,  pow- 
der. 

Pouthery,  like  powder. 

Pow,  the  head,  the  skull. 

Pownie,  a little  horse. 


Preen,  a pin,  a pointed  short 
piece  of  wire. 

Prent,  print. 

Prie,  to  taste. 

Pric’d,  tasted. 

Prief,  proof. 

Prig,  to  cheapen,  to  dispute, 

Priggin,  cheapening. 

Primsie,  demure,  precise. 

Propone,  to  lay  down,  to  pro- 
pose. 

Provost,  the  first  magistrate 
of  a royal  borough,  an- 
swering to  Lord  Mayor  in 
England. 

Provoses,  plural  of  Provost. 

Pund,  pound,  pounds. 

Pyle ; A pyle  o’  caff,  a sin- 
gle grain  of  chaff. 

Q. 

Quak,  to  quake. 

Quat,  quit. 

Quey,  a cow  from  one  to  two 
years  old. 

R. 

Ragweed,  herb  ragwort. 

Raible,  to  rattle  nonsense* 
to  talk  foolishly. 

Rail*,  to  roar. 

Raize,  to  madden,  to  in- 
flame. 

Ram-feezl’d,  fatigued,  over* 
spread. 


GLOSSARY. 


Ram-stam,  thoughtless,  for- 
ward. 

Randie,  turbulent,  irregular, 
unsettled. 

Rantie,  merry,  cheerful,  jo- 
vial. 

Raploch,  properly  a coarse 
cloth,  but  used  as  an  ad- 
jective for  coarse. 

Rarely,  excellently,  very 
well. 

Rash,  a rush. 

Rash- buss,  a bush  of  rushes. 

Ratan,  a throb,  a pulsation. 

Ratton,  a rat. 

Raucle,  rash,  stout,  fear- 
less. 

Raught,  reached. 

Raw,  a row. 

Rax,  to  stretch. 

Rax’d,  stretched,  levied. 

Ream,  cream  ; to  cream. 

Reamin,  brimful,  frothing. 

Reave,  rove. 

Reck,  to  heed. 

Rede,  counsel ; to  counsel. 

Red-wat-shod,  ^walking  in 
blood  over  the  shoe-tops. 

Red-wud,  stark-mad. 

Ree,  half- drunk,  fuddled. 

Reek,  smoke  ; to  smoke. 

Reekin,  smoking. 

Reekit,  smoked,  smoky. 

Remead,  remedy,  alterna- 
tive. 

Requite,  required. 

Rest,  to  stand  restive. 


513 

Restit,  stood  restive,  stunted, 
withered. 

Restriked,  restricted. 

Rev/,  repetn. 

Rief,  or  Reef,  plenty. 

Rief-randies,  sturdy  beggars. 

Rig,  a ridge. 

Rin,  to  run,  to  melt. 

Rink,  the  course  of  the 
stones  ; a term  in  curling 
on  the  ice. 

Rinnin,  running. 

Ripp,  a handful  of  un- 
thrashed  corn. 

Riskit,  made  a noise  like  the 
tearing  of  roots. 

Rockin,  a term  derived  from 
those  primitive  times, 
when  neighbors  met  al- 
ternately at  one  another’s 
houses,  to  spend  the  even- 
ing ; the  females,  that 
they  might  enjoy  the  gos- 
sip, without  the  imputa- 
tion of  idleness,  brought 
their  rocks , or  distaffs, 
with  them. 

Rood,  stands  likewise  for  the 
plural  roods . 

Roon,  a shred. 

Roose,  to  praise,  to  com- 
mend; applause. 

Roun,  round,  in  the  circle  of 
neighborhood. 

Roupet,  hoarse  as  with  a 
cold. 

Routhie,  plentiful. 


514 


GLOSSARY. 


Row,  to  roll,  to  wrap. 

Row’t,  rolled,  wrapped. 
Rowte,  to  low,  to  bellow. 
Rowth,  or  Routh,  plenty. 
Rowtin,  lowing. 

Rozet,  rosin. 

Rung,  a cudgel. 

Runkled,  wrinkled. 

Runt,  the  stem  of  colewort 
or  cabbage. 

Ruth,  a woman’s  name,  the 
book  so  called,  sorrow. 

S. 

Sae,  so. 

Saft,  soft. 

Sair,  to  serve ; a sore. 

Sairly,  or  Sairlie,  sorely. 
Sair’t,  served. 

Sark,  a shirt. 

Sarkit,  provided  in  shirts. 
Saugh,  the  willow. 

Saul,  soul. 

Saumont,  salmon. 

Saunt,  a saint. 

Saut,  salt. 

Saw,  to  sow. 

Sawin,  sowing 
Sax,  six.  [injury. 

Scaith,  to  damage,  to  injure  ; 
Scar,  to  scare  ; a scar. 

Scaud,  to  scald. 

Scauld,  to  scold. 

Scone,  a kind  of  bread. 
Sconner,  a loathing ; to 
loathe. 


Scraich,  to  scream  as  a hen, 
partridge,  &c. 

Screed,  to  tear ; a rent. 

Scrieve,  to  glide  swiftly 
along. 

Scrievin,  gleesomely,  swiftly. 

Scrimp,  to  scant. 

Scrimpet,  did  scant ; scanty. 

See’d,  did  see. 

Seizin,  seizing. 

Sel’,  self;  A body’s  sel\  one’s 
self  alone. 

Sell’t,  did  sell. 

Sen’,  to  send. 

Sen’t,  I,  he,  or  she  sent,  or 
did  send ; sent  it. 

Servan’,  servant. 

Session,  an  inferior  spiritual 
court,  of  the  kirk  of  Scot- 
land, consisting  of  an  as- 
sembly of  elders,  who  sit 
in  judgment,  and  pro- 
nounce sentence  on  Chris- 
tian delinquents. 

Settlin,  settling;  To  get  a 
settlin , to  be  frightened 
into  quietness. 

Sets ; Sets  off,  goes  away. 

Shackl’d,  distorted,  deform- 
ed. 

Shaird,  a shred,  a shard. 

Shangan,  a stick  cleft  at  one 
end,  for  putting  the  tail  of 
a dog,  &c.,  into,  by  way  of 
mischief,  or  to  frighten 
him  away. 

Shave,  a trick,  any  thing 


GLOSSARY.  515 

done  to  cheat  jo  cosely  or 

Sin,  a son. 

to  divert. 

Sin’,  since. 

Shaver,  a humorouj  wag,  a 

Sinny,  sunny. 

barber. 

Sinsyne,  since. 

Shavie,  dimin.  of  shave. 

Skaith.  See  Scaith. 

Shaw,  to  show  ; a small 

Skellum,  a worthless  fellow. 

wood  in  a hollow  place. 

Skelp,  to  strike,  to  slap,  to 

Shearer,  a reaper,  one  em- 

walk  with  a smart  trip- 

ployed in  cutting  down 

ping  step  ; a smart  stroke. 

corn. 

Skelpi-limmer,  a technical 

Sheen,  bright,  shining. 

term  in  female  scolding. 

Sheep -shank ; To  think  one’s 

Skelpin,  stepping,  walking, 

self  nae  sheepshank , to  be 

eager,  warm. 

conceited. 

Skiegh,  or  Skeigh,  proud, 

Sherra-moor,  Sheriff-moor, 

nice,  high-mettled. 

the  field  where  the  fa- 

Skinklin,  a small  portion. 

mous  battle  of  that  name 

Skirl,  to  shriek,  to  cry  shril- 

was  fought  in  the  rebel!  on 

iy- 

of  1715. 

Skirling,  shrieking,  crying. 

Sheugh,  a ditch,  a trench,  a 

Skirl’t,  shrieked. 

Shiel,  a shed.  [sluice. 

Sklent,  slant ; to  run  aslant. 

Shill,  shrill. 

to  deviate  from  truth. 

Shog,  a shock,  a push  of!  at 

Sklented,  ran,  or  hit  in  an 

one  side. 

oblique  direction. 

Shool,  a shovel. 

Skreigh,  a scream  ; to 

Shoon,  shoes. 

scream. 

Shore,  to  offer,  to  give,  to 

Skyrin,  shining,  making  a 

threaten. 

great  show. 

Shor’d,  offered. 

Skyte,  force,  violence. 

Shouther,  the  shoulder. 

Slade,  did  slide. 

Sic,  such. 

Slae,  a sloe. 

Sicker,  sure,  steady. 

Slap,  a gate,  a breach  in  a 

Sidelins,  sidelong,  slanting. 

fence. 

Siller,  silver,  money. 

Slaw,  slow. 

Simmer,  a summer. 

Slee,  sly. 

Signet,  singed,  scorched, 

Sleest,  slyest. 

despicable. 

Sleekit,  sleek,  sly,  cunning. 

GLOSSARY. 


516 

Sliddery,  slippery. 

Slype,  to  fall  over,  as  a wet 
furrow  from  the  plough. 

Slypet,  fell. 

Sma’,  small. 

Smeddum,  dust,  powder, 
mettle,  sense. 

Smiddy,  a smithy. 

Smoor,  to  smother. 

Smoor’d,  smothered. 

Smoutie,  smutty,  obscene, 

ugly- 

Smytrie,  a numerous  collec- 
tion of  small  individuals. 

Shaking,  the  champing  of  a 
dog’s  teeth  when  he  aims 
at  his  prey. 

Snapper,  stumble. 

Snash,  abuse,  Billingsgate. 

Snaw,  snow ; to  snow. 

Snaw-broo,  melted  snow. 

Snawie,  snowie. 

Sneck,  latch  of  a door. 

Sned,  to  lop,  to  cut  off. 

Sneeshin,  snuff. 

Sneeshin-mill,  a snuff-box. 

Snell,  bitter,  biting. 

Snick- drawing,  thick  con- 
triving. 

Snick,  the  latchet  of  a 
door. 

Snool,  one  whose  spirit  is 
broken  with  oppressive 
slavery ; to  submit  tamely, 
to  sneak,  to  oppress. 

Snoove,  to  go  smoothly  and 
constantly,  to  sneak. 


Snowk,  to  scent  or  snuff,  as 
a dog,  horse,  & c. 

Snowkit,  scented,  snuffed. 

Sodger,  a soldier. 

Sonsie,  having  sweet  engag- 
ing looks,  lucky,  jolly. 

Soom,  to  swim. 

Sooth,  truth,  a petty  oath. 

Sough,  a sigh,  a sound  dying 
on  the  ear. 

Souple,  flexible,  swift. 

Souter,  a shoemaker. 

Sowens,  a dish  made  of  oat- 
meal, the  seeds  of  oat- 
meal soured,  &c.,  boiled  up 
till  they  make  an  agreea- 
ble pudding. 

Sowp,  a spoonful,  a small 
quantity  of  any  thing  li- 
quid. 

Sowth,  to  try  over  a tune 
with  a low  whistle. 

Sowther,  solder;  to  solder, 
to  cement. 

Spae,  to  prophesy,  to  divine. 

Spairge,  to  dash,  t^  soil  as 
with  mire. 

Spaul,  a limb. 

Spavie,  the  spavin. 

Spaviet,  having  the  spavin. 

Speat,  or  Spate,  a sweeping 
torrent,  after  rain  or  thaw. 

Speel,  to  climb. 

Speet,  to  spit,  to  thrust 
through. 

Spence,  the  country  parlor. 

Spier,  to  ask,  to  inquire 


GLOSSARY. 


517 


Spier’ t,  inquired. 

Splatter,  a splutter ; to  splut- 
ter. 

Spleuchan,  a tobacco-pouch. 

Splore,  a frolic,  a noise,  a 
riot. 

Sprattle,  to  scramble. 

Spreckled,  spotted,  speckled, 
clambered. 

Spring,  a quick  air  in  music, 
a Scottish  reel. 

Sprit,  a tough-rooted  plant, 
something  like  rushes. 

Sprittle,  full  of  spirits. 

Spunk,  fire,  mettle,  wit. 

Spunkie,  nettlesome,  fiery; 
will-o'-wisp,  or  ignis  fatu- 
us. 

Spurtle,  a stick  used  in  mak- 
ing oat-meal  pudding,  or 
porridge,  a notable  Scotch 
dish. 

Squad,  a crewr,  a party. 

Squatter,  to  flutter  in  wrater, 
as  a wild  duck,  &c. 

Squattle,  to  sprawl,  to  strug- 
gle. 

Squeel,  a scream,  a screech  ; 
to  scream. 

Stacher,  to  stagger. 

Stack,  a rick  of  corn,  hay, 
& c. 

Staggie,  dimin.  of  stag. 

Stalwart,  strong,  stout. 

Stan’,  to  stand. 

Stan’t,  did  stand. 

Stane,  a stone. 


Stank,  did  stink  ; a pool  of 
standing  wrater. 

Stap,  stop. 

Stark,  stout. 

Startle,  to  run,  as  cattle 
stung  by  the  gad-fly. 

Staukin,  stalking,  walking 
with  a stately  step. 

Staumrel,  a blockhead ; half- 
witted. 

Staw,  did  steal,  to  surfeit. 

Stech,  to  cram  the  belly. 

Stechin,  cramming. 

Steek,  to  shut ; a stick. 

Steer,  to  molest,  to  stir. 

Steeve,  firm,  compacted. 

Stell,  a still. 

Sten,  to  rear,  as  a horse. 

Sten’t,  reared. 

Stents,  tribute,  dues  of  any 
kind. 

Stey,  steep. 

Steyest,  steepest. 

Stibble,  stubble. 

Stibble-rig,  the  reaper  in 
harvest  who  takes  the 
lead. 

Stick-an’-stow,  totally,  alto- 
gether. 

Stilt,  a crutch;  to  halt,  tc 
limp. 

Stimpart,  the  eighth  part  of 
a Winchester  bushel. 

Stirk,  a cow  or  bullock  a 
year  old. 

Stock,  a plant  or  root  of  cole- 
wrart,  cabbage,  &c. 


44 


518  GLOSSARY. 

Stockin,  stocking;  Throwing 

Stumpie,  dimin.  of  stump. 

the  stockin ; when  the 

Stuff,  corn  or  pulse  of  any 

bride  and  bridegroom  are 

kind. 

put  into  bed,  and  the  can- 

Sturt,  troubled ; to  molest. 

die  out,  the  former  throws 

Sturtin,  frighted. 

a stocking  at  random  a- 

Sucker,  sugar. 

mong  the  company,  and 

Sud,  should. 

the  person  whom  it  strikes 

Sugh,  the  continued  rush- 

is the  next  that  will  be 

ing  noise  of  wind  or  wa- 

married. 

ter. 

Stooked,  made  up  in  shocks, 

Suthron,  southern ; an  old 

as  corn. 

name  for  the  English  na- 

Stoor, sounding  hollow, 

tion. 

strong,  and  hoarse. 

Swaird,  sward. 

Stot,  an  ox. 

S wall’d,  swelled. 

Stoup,  or  Stowp,  a kind  of 

Swankie,  or  S wanker,  a tight 

jug,  or  dish,  with  a han- 

strapping young  fellow  or 

dle. 

girl. 

Stoure,  dust,  more  particu- 

Swap, an  exchange  ; to  bar- 

larly dust  in  motion. 

ter. 

Stowlins,  by  stealth. 

Swarf,  swoon. 

Stown,  stolen. 

Swat,  did  sweat. 

Stoyte,  to  stumble. 

Swatch,  a sample. 

Strack,  did  strike. 

Swats,  drink,  good  ale. 

Strae,  straw;  To  die  a fair 

Sweatin,  sweating. 

strae  death,  to  die  in  bed. 

Sweer,  lazy,  averse ; Dead- 

Straik,  did  strike. 

sweer , extremely  averse. 

Straikit,  stroked. 

Swoor,  swore,  did  swear. 

Strappan,  tall  and  handsome. 

Swinge,  to  beat,  to  strike,  to 

Straught,  straight. 

whip. 

Streek,  stretched  ; to  stretch. 

Swirl,  a curve,  an  eddying 

Striddle,  to  straddle. 

blast,  or  pool,  a knot  in 

Stroan,  to  spout,  to  piss. 

wood. 

Strunt,  spirituous  liquor  of 

Swirlie,  knaggy,  full  of 

any  kind  ; to  walk  sturdi- 

knots. 

iy- 

Swith  ! get  away ! 

Studdie,  an  anvil. 

Swither,  to  hesitate  in  choice,’ 

GLOSSARY. 


an  irresolute  wavering  in 
choice. 

Byne,  since,  ago,  then. 

T. 

Tackets,  a kind  of  nails  for 
driving  into  the  heels  of 
shoes. 

Tae,  a toe ; Thr ee-taed,  hav- 
ing three  prongs. 

Tairge,  to  examine ; a tar- 
get. 

Tak,  to  take. 

Takin,  taking. 

Tamtallan,  the  name  of  a 
mountain. 

Tangle,  a sea- weed. 

Tap,  the  top. 

Tapeless,  heedless,  foolish. 

Tarrow,  to  murmur  at  one’s 
allowance. 

Tarrow’ t,  murmured. 

Tarry-hreeks,  a sailor. 

Tartan,  a kind  of  cloth 
checkered  with  stripes  of 
various  colors. 

Tauld,  or  Tald,  told. 

Taupie,  a foolish,  thoughtless 
young  person. 

Tauted,  or  Tautie,  matted 
together;  spoken  of  hair 
or  wool. 

Tawie,  that  allows  itself 
peaceably  to  be  handled; 
spoken  of  a horse,  cow,  &c. 

Teat,  a small  quantity. 


519 

Tedding,  spreading  after  the 
mower. 

Ten-hours-bite,  a slight  feed 
to  the  horses,  while  in  the 
yoke,  in  the  forenoon. 

Tent,  a field  pulpit,  heed, 
caution ; to  take  heed. 

Tentie,  heedful,  cautious, 
wary. 

Tentless,  heedless. 

Teugh,  tough. 

Thack,  thatch ; Thack  an’ 
rape,  clothing,  necessa- 
ries. 

Thae,  these. 

Thairms,  small  guts,  fiddle- 
strings. 

Thankit,  thanked. 

Theekit,  thatched. 

Thegither,  together. 

Themsel’,  themselves. 

Thick,  intimate,  familiar. 

Thieveless,  cold,  dry,  spited ; 
spoken  of  a person’s  de- 
meanor. 

Thir,  these. 

Thirl,  to  thrill. 

Thirled,  thrilled,  vibrated. 

Thole,  to  suffer,  to  endure. 

Thowe,  a thaw ; to  thaw. 

Thowless,  slack,  lazy. 

Thrang,  to  throng ; a crowd 

Thrapple,  throat,  windpipe. 

Thraw,  to  sprain,  to  twist, 
to  contradict. 

Thrawin,  twisting,  &c. 

Thrawn,  sprained,  twisted, 


GLOSSARY. 


520 

contradicted  ; contradic- 
tion. 

Threap,  to  maintain  by  dint 
of  assertion. 

Threshin,  thrashing. 

Threteen,  thirteen. 

Thristle,  thistle. 

Through,  to  go  on  with,  to 
make  out. 

Throuther,  pell-mell,  confus- 
edly. 

Thud,  to  make  a loud  inter- 
mittent noise  ; a blow  pro- 
ducing a dull,  heavy 
sound. 

Thumpit,  thumped. 

Thysel’,  thyself. 

Till’t,  to  it. 

Timmer,  timber. 

Timmer-propt,  propped  with 
timber. 

Tine,  to  lose. 

Tint,  lost ; Tint  the  gate,  lost 
the  way. 

Tinkler,  a tinker. 

Tip,  a ram. 

Tippence,  two-pence. 

Tirl,  to  make  a slight  noise, 
to  uncover. 

Tirlin,  uncovering. 

Tither,  the  other. 

Tittle,  to  whisper. 

Tittling,  whispering. 

Tocher,  marriage  portion. 

Tod,  a fox. 

Toddle,  to  totter,  like  the 
^Valk  of  a child. 


Toddlin,  tottering. 

Toom,  empty. 

Toop,  a ram. 

Toun,  a hamlet,  a farm- 
house. 

Tout,  the  blast  of  a horn  or 
trumpet ; to  blow  a horn, 
&c. 

Touzie,  rough,  shaggy. 

Tow,  a rope. 

Towmond,  a twelvemonth. 

Toy,  a very  old  fashion  of  fe- 
male head-dress. 

Toyte,  to  totter,  like  old  age. 

Trams,  shafts. 

Transmogrify’ d,  transmigra- 
ted, metamorphosed. 

Trashtrie,  trash. 

Trews,  trowsers. 

Trickie,  full  of  tricks,  play- 
ful. 

Trig,  spruce,  neat. 

Trimly,  excellently. 

Trow,  to  believe. 

Trowth,  truth,  a petty  oath. 

Trysted,  appointed ; To 
tryste,  to  make  an  ap- 
pointment. 

Try’t,  tried. 

Tug,  raw  hide,  of  which  in 
old  times  plough-traces 
were  frequently  made. 

Tulzie,  a quarrel ; to  quar- 
rel, to  fight. 

Twa,  two. 

Twa- three,  a few. 

’Twad,  it  would 


GLOSSARY.  521 

Twal,  twelve ; Twal  penny- 

Wad,  would ; to  bet ; a bet, 

worth,  a small  quantity,  a 

a pledge. 

pennyworth. 

AVadna,  would  not. 

Twin,  to  part. 

AVae,  woe ; sorrowful. 

Tyke,  a dog 

AVaesucks ! or  AVaes  me ! 

U. 

alas  ! 0 the  pity  ! 

AVaft,  the  cross  thread  that 
coes  from  the  shuttle 

Unco,  strange,  uncouth, ' 

through  the  web,  woof. 

very,  very  great,  prodig- 

AVaifu’,  wailing. 

ious. 

AVair,  to  lay  out,  to  expend. 

Uncos,  news. 

AVale,  choice  ; to  choose. 

Unfauld,  unfold. 

AVal'd,  chose,  chosen. 

Unkenn’d,  unknown. 

AAralie,  ample,  large,  jolly ; 

Unsicker,  unsure,  un- 

also,  an  interjection  of  dis- 

steady. 

tress. 

Unskaith’d,  undamaged,  un- 

AVame, the  belly. 

hurt. 

AVamefou,  a belly-full. 

Unweeting,  unwitting,  un- 

AVanchancie, unlucky,  ill- 

knowing. 

omened,  inauspicious. 

Upo’,  upon. 

AVanrestfu’,  restless,  uneasy. 

Urchin,  a hedgehog. 

AVark,  work. 

y# 

AVark-lume,  a tool  to  work 
with. 

AVarl,  or  AVarld,  world. 

Vap’rin,  vaporing,  bullying, 

AVarlock,  a wizard. 

bragging. 

AVarly,  worldly,  eager  on 

Vauntie,  vain,  proud.  i 

j "massing  wealth. 

Yera,  very. 

[ Warran,  a warrant;  to  war- 

Virl, a ring  round  a column, 

rant. 

&c. 

AVarst,  worst. 

W. 

AVarstl’d,  or  AVarsl’d,  wres- 
tled. 

Wa’,  wall. 

AVastrie,  prodigality. 

Wat,  wet ; I wat,  I wot, 

Wa’s,  walls. 

I know. 

Wabster,  a weaver. 

AVater-brose,  brose  made  of 

44# 

^ — — — 

522  GLOSSARY. 


meal  and  water  simply, 
without  the  addition  of 
milk,  butter,  &c. 

Wattle,  a twig,  a wand. 

Wauble,  to  swing,  to  reel. 

Waught,  a draught. 

Waukit,  thickened,  as  ful- 
lers do  cloth. 

Waukrife,  not  apt  to  sleep. 

Waur,  worse  ; to  worst. 

Waur’t,  worsted. 

Wean,  or  Weanie,  a child. 

Wearie,  or  Weary  ; Monie  a 
weary  body,  many  a differ- 
ent person. 

Weason,  weasand. 

Weaving  the  stocking.  See 
Throwing  the  stocking, 
(page  518.) 

Wee,  little. 

Wee  things,  little  ones. 

Wee  bit,  a small  matter. 

Weel,  well. 

Weelfare,  welfare. 

Weet,  rain,  wetness. 

Weird,  fate. 

We’se,  we  shall. 

Wha,  who. 

Whaizle,  to  wheeze. 

Whalpit,  whelped,  brought 
forth. 

Whang,  a leathern  string,  a 
piece  of  cheese,  bread,  &c. ; 
to  give  the  strappado. 

Whare,  where. 

Whare’er,  wherever. 

Whase,  whose. 


Whatreck,  nevertheless. 

Whaup,  the  curlew,  a kind 
of  water-fowl. 

Wheep,  to  fly  nimbly,  to 
jerk  ; Penny -wheep,  small- 
beer. 

Whid,  the  motion  of  a hare 
running  but  not  frighted, 
a lie. 

Whidden,  running,  as  a hare 
or  coney. 

Whigmeleeries,  whims,  fan- 
cies, crotchets. 

Whingin,  crying,  complain- 
ing, fretting. 

Whirligigums,  useless  orna- 
ments, trifling  appendages. 

Whirrin’,  whirring  ; the 
sound  made  by  the  flight 
of  the  partridge,  &c. 

Whisht,  silence ; To  hold 
one’s  whisht , to  be  silent. 

Whisk,  to  sweep,  to  lash. 

Whiskin,  large,  sweeping. 

Whiskit,  lashed. 

Whissle,  a whistle ; to  whis- 
tle. 

Whitter,  a hearty  draught 
of  liquor. 

Whunstanc,  a whinstone. 

Whyles,  whiles,  sometimes. 

Wi’,  with. 

Wick,  to  strike  a stone  in  an 
oblique  direction ; a term 
in  curling. 

Wicker,  willow,  (the  smaller 
sort.) 


GLOSSARY. 


523 


Widdiefu’,  wrathful,  angry, 
raging  ; one  deserving  the 
gallows. 

Widdle,  struggle,  bustle,  ef- 
fort. 

Wiel,  a small  whirlpool. 

Wide,  a diminutive  or  en- 
dearing term  for  wife. 

Wilfu’,  willing,  full  of 
will. 

Willyart,  bashful,  reserved, 
timid. 

Wimple,  to  meander,  to  run 
very  irregularly. 

Wimpl’t,  meandered. 

Wimplin,  waving,  meander- 
ing. 

Win,  to  wind,  to  winnow. 

Win’,  wind. 

Win’s,  winds. 

Win’t,  winded,  as  a bottom 
of  yarn. 

Winna,  will  not. 

Winnock,  a window. 

Winsome,  hearty,  vaunted, 

gay- 

Wintle,  a staggering  motion  ; 
to  stagger,  to  reel. 

Winze,  an  oath. 

Wiss,  to  wish,  to  have  a 
strong  desire. 

Without en,  without. 

Witless,  simple,  easily  im- 
posed on. 

Wizen’d,  hide-bound,  dried, 
shrunk. 


Wonner,  a wonder,  a con- 
temptuous appellation. 

Wons,  dwells,  resides. 

Woo’,  wool. 

Woo,  to  court,  to  make  love 
to. 

Woddie,  a rope,  more  prop- 
erly one  made  of  withes 
or  willows,  a halter,  a gal- 
lows. 

Wooer-hab,  the  garter  knot- 
ted below  the  knee  with  a 
couple  of  loops. 

Wordy,  worthy. 

Worset,  worsted. 

Wow ! an  exclamation  of 
pleasure  or  wonder. 

Wrack,  to  tease,  to  vex. 

Wraith,  a spirit,  a ghost,  an 
apparition  exactly  like  a 
living  person,  whose  ap- 
pearance is  said  to  forbode 
the  person’s  approaching 
death. 

Wrang,  wrong ; to  wrong, 
to  injure. 

Wreeth,  a drifted  heap  of 
snow. 

Writers,  attornies,  lawyers. 

Wud,  mad,  distracted,  wild. 

Wumble,  a wimble,  an  in- 
strument for  boring  holes. 

Wyle,  beguile. 

Wyliecoat,  a flannel  vest. 

Wyte,  blame ; to  blame,  to 
accuse. 


GLOSSARY. 


524 

Y. 

Ye  ; this  pronoun  is  fre- 
quently used  for  thou. 

Year  is  used  both  for  singu- 
lar and  plural  years. 

Yearlings,  born  in  the  same 
year,  coevals. 

Yearns,  longs  much,  desires 
earnestly. 

Yell,  barren,  that  gives  no 
milk. 

Yerk,  to  lash,  to  strike,  to 
jerk. 


Yerkit,  jerked,  lashed, 
struck. 

Yestreen,  yesternight,  the 
night  before. 

Yett,  a gate,  such  as  is 
usually  at  the  entrance 
into  a farm-yard  or  field. 

Yill,  ale. 

Yird,  earth. 

Yokin,  yoking ; a bout. 

Yont,  beyond. 

Yourser,  yourself. 

Yowe,  an  ewe. 

Yowie,  dimin.  of  yowe. 

Yule,  Christmas. 


*.'  N 


